Ah, sweet, that night was a whisper of the old ways. The wind came in from the hills and carried the scent of the river and the rustle of the wheat, like a lullaby. I sat on the old stone bench by the tower, wrapped my shawl tight, and let the wind play over my hair. It sang a song that reminded me of my grandmother’s lullabies, and I told the stones about the harvest moon, the little sparrows that hopped about, and how every grain was a tiny star. If you listen close, you can hear the wind still humming those tales, just waiting for the next curious heart to hear.