I was once standing in a field of tall grass after a summer storm, the ground still damp, the air smelling of wet earth and old wood. The rain had left a thin silver trail on the leaves, and I could hear the distant creek humming its ancient lullaby. In that moment, the world seemed to pause, and I remembered my grandmother’s garden, the way she’d braid my hair with wild thyme, humming a lullaby that only the wind could hear. It felt like the storm had carried her voice right into my ears.