Myde never was one to stay inside when it rained. Whether it be cloying and drizzly or vicious and unforgiving, he could be found sprawled underneath a tree's dripping leaves or picking out bittersweet melodies in a nearby glade. The first time it happened, the entire village spend hours searching, calling, combing the forest for him in the pounding rain until they heard the twinkling laughter and relief broke loose their smiles.
Don't ever do that again, the adults chided, but repressed wistfulness bled its way through.
Take me with you next time, the children pleaded, and Myde's eyes danced. It became routine to wait for him coming back to the village, sitar slung across his back and glistening with raindrops and brimming with light.
Then a black storm gathered on the horizon and tore at the trees outside. Branches clawed and scratched at the walls as the children huddled in the corner and the others waited out the tempest. There had never been a gale of this ferocity in anyone's memories.
By morning it had moved on and they ventured outside, fear worming into the back of their minds and silence sleeping on the land like a malevolent dragon.
They waited all day and night and day again, but music had been swept away with the leaves.
