The dry earth had cracked like old parchment, thirsting under a sun that had ruled the sky for too long. In the small village of Lakhpur, people watched the empty heavens every evening, hoping. 

One afternoon, as Meera walked home from the market, she felt a strange hush settle over the fields. The birds stilled. The wind thickened. She stopped, a basket of mangoes balanced on her hip, and looked up. A single dark cloud had drifted across the gold-washed sky.

The first drop fell, cool and fat, splashing against her wrist. Meera gasped. More followed, pattering on the dusty road, stirring up the sweet smell of wet earth. Around her, doors creaked open and children spilled into the lanes, laughing and shrieking at the sky.

Meera dropped her basket and lifted her arms. The rain fell harder, washing over the rooftops, running down the worn stones, filling the air with a music sweeter than any song. Farmers danced barefoot in their fields, and old women wept quietly on their porches. 

It was not just water falling from the sky — it was hope. It was life. That evening, under a thick blanket of clouds, the village of Lakhpur dreamed again.