Dream farming
The wind moved the flowers in the field outside the window. On the distant hills, tall grass swayed like waves in the sea.
A small log cabin sat tucked into the forest, warm and cozy inside. She rested at the kitchen counter, drinking tea, quietly watching the world through the window.
The only sound was the soft chime of wind bells hanging from the trees outside.
The recipe was simple: ash from an old tree mixed with morning dew to form a paste. Let it dry, then crush it back into dust.
At night, guided only by starlight, she sprinkled the dust beneath the wind chimes. Afterward, she could see—and gently pick up—every chime the wind had touched that day.
She placed them in a woven basket and carried them inside, shaking each one carefully to discover what it held.
You see, each 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.
