With eyes at rest in the way of dreams, Hidayah heard the quenching rain. The percussion of the given water varies according to the surface it wets. There was the drums that were windows, the cymbals that are the concrete floor, and the soft, soft maracas that are the music of the grass. The triangles are the puddles, a high note to pick up the mood to sing of the joy of the plants upon such a night.

With tedious movement, she got off her bed and ambled out of the room. She headed to ...