The dry winds had not yet left, but they had grown restless.
Charlisa felt it one morning in the way the sky looked—not dusty, but clear, almost shy in its brightness. The sun rose behind a thin veil, less cruel than it had been in recent weeks. Birds that had vanished began calling again, short trills, like hesitant greetings.
The villagers noticed too.
Elder Shyara held her palm to the air and muttered, "She's turning. The wind-mother is turning her face."
That day, fewer tempers flared. The air still crackled with heat, but there was a softness behind it, like a blanket that had begun to loosen. Even the animals were quieter—no growls or snarls outside the fences, only the sound of slow footsteps and sniffing noses.
Kael joined Charlisa beneath the shade tree where herbs dried in baskets. He leaned against the trunk, arms folded, face tipped toward the horizon.
"She's coming," he said.
Charlisa turned to him. "The rain?"
He nodded, gaze faraway. "Not here yet. But close. The sky's scent has changed."
Charlisa hadn't noticed at first. But now she did.
It was faint, like the memory of something buried deep in the earth—a scent of moss, of cracked seed husks beginning to stir, of lightning long before it strikes.
That night, during the wind song ritual, no drums were played. Instead, the villagers hummed a single note together—low, like the murmur of water beneath stones. A sound of waiting. Of faith.
At the end, Matriarch Yelara stepped forward and pressed a seed into the dirt at the center of the gathering circle. Not to grow now—but to promise.
"It is not water that brings life," she said. "It is the belief that water will come."
Charlisa stared at the seed long after others had drifted away. Her hand found Kael's without looking. His fingers curled around hers like a vine seeking sunlight.
The sky above was still dark, still dry. But in the wind's edge was something new.