Before rain had a voice, the ground had a rumor. We built a room big enough for fear and hope—ribs bent, seams pitched, three decks marked with sigils. Systems grew: sprout ladder, hospital corner, knot board; we rehearsed calm with reed curtains, quiet lamps, a drum tuned to heart. Animals arrived like prayers with feet. We opened the ledger and wrote the law: Keep what breathes, breathing—Father added Proof, Mother Mercy. The first drops tapped the deck; we shut the door, trimmed the lamps to the size of courage, and kept the promise.
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