They say the whale once had wings.
Long ago, when the world was still learning its own shape, she flew across the skies — not with feathers, but with the power of sound. Her songs held the memory of the first waters, the names of mountains before they rose, and the silence before the stars.
But one day, the sky asked her to make a choice.
“You carry too much of the ocean in your voice,” it said.
“You belong to the deep, not the clouds.”
So the whale dove into the sea, and with her, she carried the sky’s music.
Now she swims, not flies — but still sings. Her body is covered in stories, carved by ancestors into her skin: the salmon that fed the people, the spirits that live in the tides, the moon that guides her.
The elders say if you listen closely at dawn, when the mist rises and the water holds its breath,
you can hear her still —
singing not for sorrow,
but to remind us that some journeys are not lost,
they’re simply deeper.
They call her Ska’na — The One Who Remembers the First Sound.
