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Rain began just as Maya and Comet reached the bakery porch. The baker invited them to wait under the roof.
“I wanted to hear the evening birds,” Maya said.
Comet listened. Tap, tap, tap. Drops landed on an empty tin bucket.
Plip, plip. Other drops fell into a wide flowerpot. The porch roof made a soft shushing sound.
“That sounds like a tiny band,” he said.
Maya closed her eyes for a moment. She heard three different rain sounds. The bucket tapped quickly. The pot plipped slowly. The roof hummed above them.
They took turns pointing to the sound they heard. The baker brought dry towels and sat beside them.
Soon the rain grew lighter. A bird called from the apple tree.
“There is our singer,” Maya whispered.
They listened until the last drops fell. Their walk had changed, but the evening still had a song. Comet carried its soft rhythm all the way home.
