Discover why the ocean's ancient Singing Coral went silent

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Morning light wobbled through the water into {child_name}'s coral bedroom. {child_name} tried to brush {child_pronoun_possessive} hair with a sea urchin comb. SPLUP! It curled right into a ball.

But this morning, something was wrong. The Singing Coral — the great reef that hummed every single morning — was silent. {child_name} pressed {child_pronoun_possessive} ear to the wall. Nothing. The song hummed on... nowhere.

CRASH! A tiny orange seahorse slammed into the window. "This is TERRIBLE!" Finnick squeaked, spinning in circles. "This is a DISASTER!" The curtain anemone sneezed him out — PFFFT!

"We should go see what happened," said {child_name}. Finnick stared. "Two kids fix the ocean? I hate this plan." But when {child_name} swam out the door... Finnick followed.

They swam through the village. Without the coral's song, everything felt wrong. Colors faded. Fish drifted. Even the old sea turtles had stopped swimming — just floating and blinking.

At the edge of town loomed the Kelp Curtain — a towering wall of kelp, thick and dark. "If something eats us," Finnick said, "it is entirely YOUR fault."

{child_name} watched the kelp sway. In... out... in... out. {child_pronoun_subject} matched the rhythm — push, glide, push, glide — and the kelp parted strand by strand. FWOOOSH!

They tumbled into open water. Below them the ocean dropped away — deep, deep down — into a blue canyon called the Whispering Trench. Strange fish with tiny lanterns drifted past, blinking.

Deeper they swam. Colder the water. Dimmer the light. {child_name} pressed {child_pronoun_possessive} fingers to the cracked coral wall and felt a tiny, tiny hum. Not dead. Scared.

At the very bottom, they found it. Old nets and rope and broken things wrapped tight around the Mother Coral. It could not breathe. It could not sing. The coral remembers — but barely.

{child_name} grabbed the net and pulled. {child_pronoun_possessive} fingers slipped! Pulled harder. It would not move. "We need TEN whales!" squeaked Finnick. Too big. Too hard. {child_name} was too small.

Then {child_name} remembered the kelp — how it opened when {child_pronoun_subject} matched its rhythm. {child_pronoun_subject} pressed both hands to the coral and listened. A tiny hum. Barely there. {child_name} closed {child_pronoun_possessive} eyes and hummed back.

The coral glowed. THRUM. The trench shivered. THRUM. Nets loosened, strand by strand. THRUM! THRUM! THRUM! {child_name} was singing now, really singing, and the Mother Coral blazed with golden light!

The song rushed through the ocean — up past the lantern fish, through the Kelp Curtain, all the way home! The Singing Coral woke. Turtles swam. The coral remembers. Colors rushed back into everything.

Nobody knew what {child_name} did. {child_pronoun_subject} sat on {child_pronoun_possessive} favorite rock with Finnick curled around {child_pronoun_possessive} wrist. "Same time tomorrow if the ocean breaks?" Finnick yawned and fell asleep. The song hummed on.

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