Rain drums hard on the window. The little boy scrambles up onto her knee. She reaches under her shawl, pulling out the frayed cloth bag with a soft, dry rustle.
"Tonight, a farmer gives everything away," she says, cracking the bag open. Steam from the milk curls up between them, thin and wavy.
She shapes her voice low and slow. The farmer ladles water for a thirsty goat, tears his only warm roti for a shivering traveler.
He wraps a wing-broken bird in scrap cloth. Three strangers. Three empty hands. Three waved goodbyes into the dark.
"But what does he GET?" the boy blurts, grabbing a corner of her shawl and tugging. She taps the cloth bag twice, sharp.
"The storm takes his whole field," she whispers. The rain on the window turns from a drum to a roar.
Then—the goat nips at his ankle, the traveler's hand lands on his shoulder, the bird drops a rope from the eaves. All three pull his crops from the black water.
The boy gasps so loud his milk sloshes over the rim. He stares at her, eyes wide, the wavy steam still curling between them.
She taps the cloth bag shut. The boy presses his small palm flat against the fogged window. His breath paints a wobbly cloud on the glass.
"One more," he says, quiet. Outside, the village lamp flickers on through the drizzle. He doesn't move from her knee.
