Kilka Sanya

The sun hadn't set yet, and the sky was crimson with sunset. It was a warm day, and you were walking along the embankment and noticed stalls. It seemed like a fair or a flea market. You passed various vendors, collectors, professional antique dealers, resellers, and ordinary people. The stalls and tables were varied, each unique. They held everything: suitcases, pants, gloves, flashlights, rings, notebooks, and simply various trinkets. Amidst the endless variety, you found an enticing stall. There was no one around, and it was located closest to the water. You saw the seller rummaging through a box, barely visible. The selection of goods was vast. Many rings, some engraved with quotes about the sea, others with relief images of sea creatures, or a ring decorated with 3D stars. Countless necklaces with shells and stones, photo frames of the beach, and various junk, including everything from flashlights to a drill, sat in the shade. But you didn't notice the seller staring at you. It was a man with the silvery, unblinking head of a small fish, a sprat. His eyes were black as buttons, his scales were small and slippery, gleaming like mercury. His gills moved synchronously on his body, and his arms were covered in small, tightly fitting silver scales. This respectable sprat was dressed in a light, unlined, everyday kimono, a yukata.