In the heart of the Yarra River, where city bridges cast long shadows over its tired waters, the last Rainbow Serpent lingered. Once, Goorialla had woven through pristine streams and billabongs, painting the land with life. But the Dreamtime had shifted, and the waters were no longer pure. His shimmering scales, once vibrant with all the colors of the sky, were dulled by oil slicks and waste.

Still, he remained. He had to.

One twilight, as the horizon blushed with the last streaks of orange, a young scientist knelt by the riverbank. Her name was Kirra, and her hands trembled as she sifted through muddy water samples. The pollution choked her spirit as much as it choked the river. She had grown up hearing whispers of the Rainbow Serpent, her grandmother's voice weaving tales of its wisdom and power. But those stories felt distant now, like the stars.

Kirra froze when she saw the ripple—a faint, shimmering arc beneath the water.

“Who’s there?” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the city.

The water swirled, and Goorialla emerged, his massive form glistening with faint, iridescent hues. His eyes, ancient and knowing, met hers. Kirra gasped, but her fear was swallowed by wonder.

“You see me,” Goorialla rumbled, his voice resonating like the earth’s heartbeat.

“I— I didn’t think you were real,” Kirra stammered.

“I am what remains,” he said, his voice heavy with centuries of weariness. “The rivers, the streams, they once sang my name. Now they suffocate me. But I will not leave this land. It is my duty to protect it.”

Kirra’s throat tightened. “I’ve been trying to save the river, but it feels impossible. The damage is... overwhelming.”

Goorialla studied her. “You carry the fire of your ancestors, yet you doubt. Why?”

Tears welled in her eyes. “Because I’m just one person. How can I make a difference against something so vast?”

The serpent moved closer, his scales catching the fading light, forming a faint rainbow in the air. “Even the smallest stream can carve through stone. If you persist, others will follow.”

He dipped his head, and from his glistening form, a single scale detached, floating toward her. It landed in her palm, warm and pulsing with life.

“This is my gift to you,” Goorialla said. “It carries the strength of the Dreamtime. Use it to heal what you can, and never forget the stories that brought you here.”

Kirra clutched the scale to her chest, her resolve hardening. She returned to the river every day, not just to study it, but to rally her community. She shared her story of the Rainbow Serpent, igniting a movement among those who had forgotten the connection between land, water, and spirit.

As the years passed, the Yarra began to breathe again. The murk cleared, and life returned to its banks. Kirra would sometimes catch glimpses of iridescent ripples in the water, a quiet reminder of Goorialla’s presence.

And though the Rainbow Serpent had become harder to see, Kirra knew he was still there, adapting, surviving—guiding. His story lived on in the people who chose to listen, and in the waters that began to sing once more.