The sun burned so fiercely it seemed to want to scorch the world clean.
The river shimmered — warm, murky, deceptively calm.
The air quivered, cicadas whined in the reeds.
The farmer stood at the bank, watching his dog, Rex, splashing near the water.
It was their ritual — every morning, without fail.
He threw a stick.
Rex leapt after it, sending an arc of droplets into the air.
The farmer smiled.
Old dog, same heart — loyal, fierce, alive.
Then everything went still.
At first, he thought the dog was just tired.
But the silence was strange.
It wasn’t peace — it was waiting.
He tensed.
Rex stood chest-deep in the water, motionless, staring ahead.
And behind him — a ripple. Too straight. Too deliberate.
The farmer stepped into the river.
The warm water closed around his legs, thick mud sucking at his feet.
The air smelled of rot and algae.
“Rex!” he called.
The dog turned his head — eyes wide with fear.
And then the water exploded behind him.
He saw only a shadow — long, heavy, gliding — as if the river itself had come alive.
He jumped.
The cold slammed into his chest.
He dove — sound vanished, light vanished, breath vanished.
Underwater was green haze, sand, and drifting bubbles.
He saw Rex — thrashing, choking, eyes wild with panic.
He reached out, grabbed the fur —
and felt another pull.
Strong. Relentless.
The current roared in his ears, swirling, deafening.
He turned — and saw the jaws.
Huge. Pale gray. Teeth like nails.
Eyes — two yellow lights, empty as death itself.
The crocodile moved silently, but each lunge rippled through him like pain.
He screamed — underwater, soundless, desperate — and pulled with everything he had.
His muscles burned, lungs begged for air, but he didn’t let go.
The current dragged them down.
He kicked — struck something hard, rough, alive.
The crocodile released — for a second.
He used it.
One push upward — and they broke the surface.
Air hit his chest like fire.
He inhaled, coughed, choked.
He heard barking, splashing, his own name — though no one was there.
He dragged Rex toward the shore, arms trembling.
The dog slipped from his grasp, paddling weakly, gasping.
Together, they collapsed onto the sand.
The farmer lay still, his body shaking from exhaustion.
He could hear the rasp of his breath, the thud of his heart.
Beside him, Rex breathed too — ragged, but alive.
He rolled onto his back.
The sun blazed straight into his eyes, and the cicadas sang again over the river.
Everything was normal once more.
As if nothing had happened.
Only the river — quiet, lazy —
and somewhere in its depths, two yellow eyes,
glowing faintly in the murky dark,
waiting for the next time he came close to the water.
