Lunelle and the Rain Singer

More about Lunelle and the Rain Singer

Autumn came quietly to the Lurien Forest. At first, there were only a few cool drops, then a rustling sound that turned the leaves into a golden whisper. Lunelle, the little wood mouse, pulled up the collar of her yellow raincoat and looked out into the puddles gathering between the roots. "A good day to stay," she murmured. But her gaze fell on the large maple leaf by the door. It shone like a boat of light. Lunelle had dreamed many times of floating down the river, where the old willows dipped their branches in silver water and the sound of the current told stories. Today, she decided, was such a day. She tightened the laces of her coat, took the small umbrella made of fir branches and hazel stick, and stepped outside. The rain danced on the forest floor, and each drop sounded like a tiny bell. With a bold step, she stepped into the leaf boat, which gently detached itself and was carried along by the water. The stream glittered as if molten copper flowed through it. "I'll call you Rainsong," Lunelle said, placing her paw on the leaf's edge. The boat glided through the curves of the forest, past ferns, stones that looked like sleeping animals, and an old tree trunk from whose core a light shimmered. It was a quiet, peaceful glow, like fireflies hidden in a memory. The wind blew gently, the rain fell softly—and then Lunelle heard it. A sound, barely audible, like a flute made of water. She strained her ears. The sound came from the river itself. It was clear and bright, but sad. "Who's singing?" Lunelle called, but the sound didn't answer, instead transforming into a melody that blended with each drop. The boat drifted around a small bend, and there she saw him: a frog with a silver throat, sitting on a rock. Beside him was a tiny flute carved from reeds. "Are you the Rain Singer?" asked Lunelle. The frog nodded slowly. "I sing so the rain knows where to fall. But today I can't hear my song." Lunelle looked around. The river was overflowing, rushing loudly. "Perhaps it's just too loud to listen to you." "Or I'm too quiet to be heard," he murmured.Then Lunelle had an idea. She opened her umbrella and held it over the frog. Immediately, rain pattered against the umbrella canopy—muffled, rhythmic, like drums. The frog raised its head in surprise. "Now sing," she said softly. He picked up the flute. The sound floated over the water, and the rain responded in notes softer than before. It was as if heaven and earth had found each other again. The river calmed, the boat glided silently. And for a moment, the whole forest seemed to be listening. "Thank you," the frog finally said. "Sometimes even the rain needs an echo."