The dry season had lingered longer than expected. Rivers thinned, the air turned heavy, and even the leaves in the garden drooped with thirst.
The villagers remained hopeful, but there was a quiet tension in the air what if the rain never came?
Kaira stood by the sanctuary window one afternoon, watching the horizon. Emeka entered, wiping sweat from his brow after helping repair the school roof.
"The earth is waiting," he said.
"Yes," Kaira whispered. "But the sky stays silent."
That evening, a council of elders gathered under the Dream Tree. Not to panic but to plan. Water jars were shared, duties rotated, and no one was left alone in the burden.
Then, something unexpected happened.
The children gathered at the center of the garden and began to sing.
It was a song they had created themselves a melody stitched together from stories, laughter, and dreams. As they sang, the petals from the Dream Tree stirred, floating upward like sparks.
The sky, still and gray, listened.
Suddenly, the first drop fell.
Then another.
And then a downpour.
Cries of joy echoed through Anuli. Buckets were raised. Hands stretched to the heavens. Some danced, others wept. But all felt the same miracle:
The rain had heard their dreams.
Kaira and Emeka stood under the garden's canopy, watching the trees drink deeply. The garden didn't shimmer this time it soaked, it received, it welcomed.
"This is more than a garden now," Emeka said. "It's a living story."
Kaira nodded. "And we're still writing it."
That night, under the rhythm of falling rain, the villagers slept soundly not just because their thirst was eased, but because they had seen something powerful:
Dreams don't just wait for sunlight. Sometimes, they bring the rain.