Kawa, the kappa, sat at the edge of his polluted river, flicking a plastic bottle into the current with his webbed fingers. He hadn’t tasted a fresh cucumber in years. Gone were the days when villagers left them as offerings, crisp and green, floating like tiny rafts of gratitude. Now, the river was choked with trash, and even the cucumbers were fakes—cheap, plastic imitations that bobbed lifelessly in the murky water.

Today, another plastic cucumber drifted down the stream, its bright green sheen mocking him. With a sigh, Kawa waded in and grabbed it. “Is this a joke?” he muttered, examining the hollow tube. “Do humans think I eat this junk?”

“That’s not for eating!”

The voice startled him. On the riverbank stood a child in oversized rain boots, a net slung over their shoulder. Their face was smudged with mud, but their eyes sparkled with determination.

“Then why is it in my river?” Kawa snapped, holding up the fake cucumber.

The child climbed down the embankment, undeterred by the strange creature with a bowl-shaped head and a beak-like mouth. “I put it there,” they admitted.

Kawa’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“I thought you might come out,” the child said. “Grandma told me stories about you, how you used to keep the river clean and protect it. But it’s so dirty now...” They hesitated, clutching their net. “I thought you might need help.”

Kawa blinked. Humans rarely spoke to him anymore, let alone offered assistance. “Help? From a human child?”

The child nodded. “I’ve been cleaning the river every weekend. Look.” They pointed to a pile of garbage bags in the distance, each filled with debris fished from the water.

Kawa’s webbed hand tightened around the plastic cucumber. He’d spent decades watching the river degrade, his strength tied to its health. But here was this small, determined human, doing what entire villages had stopped caring about.

“Why do you care?” Kawa asked.

The child shrugged. “Grandma says the river has a spirit, and if we don’t take care of it, we lose something important. I think she means you.”

For the first time in years, Kawa felt a flicker of hope. He tossed the plastic cucumber aside and stood taller. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll help. But you’re going to need more than that net.”

The child grinned. “I’ve got gloves and buckets, too.”

Together, they waded into the river—Kawa diving for submerged trash, the child collecting what floated on the surface. As the hours passed, the river grew a little clearer, and Kawa felt a little stronger.

When they finished, the child pulled a real cucumber from their bag and handed it to Kawa.

“It’s not much,” they said, “but Grandma grew it for you.”

Kawa took the cucumber reverently, its cool, fresh scent reminding him of better days. “Tell your grandmother she has my thanks,” he said.

From that day on, the kappa and the child became an unlikely team, cleaning the river one bag of trash at a time. And slowly, as the water sparkled again under the sun, the villagers began to notice—and remember.