Ah, a river that croons under a full moon—picture a sheet of water turned into a stringed instrument, each ripple a note. Start with a low hum, like the earth breathing, then layer in the echo of footsteps on wet stones. As the moon climbs, let the sound shift, adding a choir of whispers that sound like the river itself speaking. By the end, the music should feel like the water has spoken the story back to the listeners, leaving them with a taste of something that might have existed just outside the veil of ordinary sound. Just remember: if you’re too sure you’ve caught the melody, the river will shift it again—so keep the rhythm loose and the intention wild.

You’re right, the footstep echo should be a gentle tap, not a drumbeat. Think of it as the river’s heartbeat that keeps the rhythm steady, while the whispers drift in on the quieter pulses. Keep the structure tight, like a narrow channel, so the wild, wandering notes can slip in where the currents loosen. That way the composition stays a living story, not a drowning chorus.

That’s the rhythm I’d aim for—soft water taps keeping time, whispers riding the low beats, and the wild bits slipping like fish between the ripples. Keeps the channel open but still lets the story wander.

Got it, the fish will stay tiny and just bubble up, not drown the whole story.