She set the tea cup, that had been warming her hands greatly, onto the wooden floor of the abandoned shrine and stared out into the distance. Rain poured down from the dark grey hazy clouds heavily and created large puddles on the ground. The pitter-patter of the rain on the shrine felt nice to hear again. It was like everything in her life was nothing but a dream, a far off dream that she would eventually forget about.
She leaned out a little to try and hear what the wind and water could be whispering to each other secretly. They always kept secrets from the rocks. That was why the rocks were always cold.
But despite how hard she tried to hear what they were whispering, today they were being extra cautious of listeners. Not even she, the girl who had once swept, cleaned, eaten in, slept in, and lived in this shrine, could hear the whispers. Maybe this was growing up.
She leaned back in and covered herself with a quilt that had been lying abandoned in the also, abandoned shrine. It was warm and thick and had an odd but comforting smell. She remembered this blanket. She remembered this smell.
A snail was sliming its way through the mud, enjoying every second of the rain. Its poky eyes were in a sleepy, slow daze. Slowly, more of them began to come out, all happy to be a part of the whispering that she could not hear.
She slowly began to feel the sleepiness and happiness of the snails covering her and slowly began to lie down on the floor. The quilt was still rapping itself around her until it was satisfied that it was giving her enough warmth, until she was satisfied.
The tea cups warmth was right next to her face, allowing her to breathe in its smells of herbs and warm water.
And slowly, very slowly, her eyes drooped.
And drooped.
And drooped.
And drooped.
Until they closed.
