fic, i i

Not every move has to end on a crescendo, certain kinds of motion ease into softer sounds.
The last thing she hears is the bursting of bubbles, algae in her hair, a familiar crying.
She hears the way the currents make her dance one more variation, with feet like bridges.
Crumbling.

Water washing you away is not crescending, rather you're becoming one such softer sound.