Dream Drops.

The wind moved the flowers in the field outside the window. The tall grass on the distant hills swayed like waves at sea.

A small log cabin with a cozy interior sat in the middle of the forest. She rested at the kitchen counter, drinking tea and quietly watching the view through the window.

There was no sound except for the wind chimes hanging from the trees outside.

The recipe was simple: ash from an old tree mixed with morning dew to form a paste, left to dry, then crushed back into dust.

At night, with only starlight above, she would sprinkle the dust beneath the wind chimes. Afterward, she could see—and collect—every chime the wind had touched that day.

She gathered them in a woven basket and carried them inside, shaking each one gently to see what it held.

Because every night, the wind chimes reflected a star. During the day, as the wind moved them, the memories of those who had gazed at that star fell like drops of water to the ground—waiting to be gathered.