The first loop was crooked.
It leaned to one side. There was a wobble near the bottom, and the person drawing it nearly ran out of room. Nobody would have called it beautiful. Everyone who saw what happened next remembered it.
Long before anyone named the shallows or wondered what lay beyond them, the pond followed its own quiet habits. Lilies opened in the morning. Shadows gathered beneath them. Small faces appeared between the leaves, then vanished with a flick of water.
Some stayed close to the bank. Others drifted towards the open spaces, where the light was better and the way home was harder to find. For a while, there seemed to be enough room for everyone.
Then a ripple crossed the pond against the current. Nobody on the bank noticed, but beneath the lilies, everything went still.
After that, there were absences. A group returned to the shallows with one fewer face. A familiar patch of water stayed empty. Sometimes a leaf would dip as though something had passed beneath it, followed by another, then another. Whatever moved down there had learned to approach without splashing.
People came to watch. Most saw a pleasant little pond and continued along the bank. One visitor stayed long enough to see a lily move when there was no wind.
We have no name for that first visitor. The stories disagree about almost everything else. Some place them there at dawn; others insist it was evening. They agree on the line.
A small group had drifted beyond the lilies. Behind them, the leaves began dipping, one by one. The little faces turned towards the bank, but the movement beneath the leaves was already gaining on them.
The visitor reached towards the water and began to draw. There was no reason to believe it would help. Later, people would ask what made them try. Nobody has ever found an answer.
The line curved around the group, too wide at first, then too narrow. The last little face squeezed closer as the visitor hurried to join the ends. A leaf dipped beside them, close enough to touch.
The loop closed.
The visitor lifted their hand. Blue light traced the crooked edge, and the little faces disappeared from the open water. A moment later, they surfaced together in the shallows. Behind them, a dark shape passed through the space where they had been.
It circled the empty water once before slipping beneath the lilies.
Word travelled along the banks. Soon there were more visitors, more uncertain lines and more rescues that came down to the final inch. Some loops were generous; others barely left room to turn around. Some failed, and those visitors often stayed the longest.
Nobody drew the same line twice. The water kept moving, and the little faces rarely waited where you expected them to. People began returning with friends, pointing out narrow escapes and favourite patches of pond. The name arrived later: ODDLOOP. It suited a place where a crooked line could mean everything.
I have collected many of these stories. Around here, they call me The PondFather. In time, I will tell you about the faces beneath the lilies and the things found where the shallow water ends.
There is one detail the stories always miss. Just before that first loop closed, someone looked up and saw a stranger kneeling at the bank, an uncertain hand reaching towards the water.
I remember the look on their face.
I was inside.
There is still room beside the water. The lilies have begun to move.
The next loop is yours.