In the middle of a dense mangrove forest in southern Vietnam, where the water glows gold at sunrise and the moonlight dances on the surface at night, lived an old fisherman named Binh. He had lived alone for years, floating on a modest wooden houseboat anchored to the shore. But he was never truly alone—not since Luna came into his life.

Luna was not a dog or a cat, as you might expect.

She was a dugong—a rare, gentle sea creature, cousin to the manatee. Her kind had nearly vanished from these waters, but one stormy night ten years ago, Binh had found her, no larger than a seal pup, tangled in a fishing net.

At first, he thought she was dead. She didn’t move, just floated there, her body scarred and her breathing shallow. But something about her eye—soft, intelligent—moved him.

He cut her free, held her in the water for hours despite the storm. And when she flicked her tail and swam a circle around his boat, he named her Luna, after the full moon that broke through the clouds that night.

From then on, Luna returned every day. She’d wait near the boat at sunrise, and Binh would toss her pieces of seaweed and sing to her as he cast his nets. She never left for long. He spoke to her more than to any human.

The villagers whispered about the “sea ghost” the old man kept. Some called him crazy. But Binh didn’t care. In Luna’s quiet company, he found peace.

They shared ten years of tides and seasons. When Binh’s back ached and his nets came back light, Luna would nudge his boat as if encouraging him not to give up. On nights when loneliness hit like thunder, she’d rise from the water beside his window, exhaling a soft sigh that calmed his heart.

One year, the waters began to change.

Boats with loud engines came, filled with men who dumped waste and set illegal nets in the shallow channels. Fish vanished. The mangroves, once thick and thriving, were cut back for shrimp farms.

Binh grew worried. Luna’s visits became irregular. Sometimes she came with scratches on her back or cuts from propellers. She no longer played. She only watched him, her eyes darker.

One morning, she didn’t come.

Not that day. Not the next. Not for a whole month.

Binh searched the waters, paddling through every known path. He called for her at dusk. He sang their old song, hoping she’d hear. But the water remained still.

People said she had gone to deeper seas, or died.

Binh stopped fishing. He only waited.

One rainy evening, he lit his lantern and placed it on the boat deck, a tradition his father had taught him long ago—for guiding lost spirits home.

The next morning, a weak thump echoed against the boat’s hull.

He rushed out—and there she was.

Luna floated by the boat, her body thin, her back gashed, and her breathing labored. Her once-smooth skin had marks of fishing nets. She looked at Binh with exhaustion, her body half-sunken.

Tears filled the old man’s eyes. “Luna… you came back…”

He didn’t waste time. He filled buckets with clean water, gently washed her wounds, and placed cooling wet cloths along her back. She couldn’t eat. She barely moved.

That night, he sat beside her, whispering old stories and holding her flipper in the water like one would hold a friend’s hand.

But even in her weakness, Luna looked at him with something in her gaze—urgency.

The next day, Binh understood why.

From behind the mangrove roots, he saw them—two small dugongs, calves. One peered shyly from the water, the other playful, spinning under the surface.

Luna had not vanished.

She had become a mother.

She had hidden her calves in the safer, deeper parts of the estuary. But now she had returned—perhaps not just to say goodbye, but to ask for help.

Binh’s heart broke and swelled at once.

For days, he tended to her while learning the rhythms of the calves. He gave them food, kept curious tourists away, and set up floating barriers to protect the cove from speedboats.

Luna lasted three more days.

On the fourth morning, as dawn broke with streaks of orange, she rose gently to the surface, looked at Binh one last time, and with a soft breath… was gone.

The water stilled.

Binh sobbed like a child.

But the calves remained. They swam close, nuzzling his boat, seeking comfort in the only guardian they now knew.

From that day forward, Binh had a new purpose.

He stopped fishing entirely and started guarding the cove. He collected discarded nets, petitioned local authorities to protect the area, and worked with marine groups who were shocked to learn there were still dugongs here.

They came with cameras and research boats, asking how he kept them alive.

Binh would point to his lantern. “She found her way home by light,” he’d say. “I’m just keeping it on for her children.”

Over the years, Luna’s calves grew. The villagers, once mocking, began to help. They called the cove “Vịnh Ánh Trăng” — Moonlight Bay — in her honor.

And every full moon, Binh lights a lantern and sings the song he once sang to Luna, his voice trembling but full of hope. The calves rise from the water, echoing soft, haunting sighs as if joining in the melody.

Luna is gone, but her spirit lives in every ripple, every splash, and every glowing reflection in the bay.