The next morning I woke to soft rain again. I had promised myself to use my gift sparingly, but I also knew a sick child cannot wait. Old Daya's youngest grandchild, little Padma, lay feverish under a coarse blanket. Daya held her hand, pleading with the rain gods or any gods to bring cooling air. The sky was grey, the earth smelled of joss sticks at the shrine. I crept in as dawn broke.
"Padma, the truth of water…" I whispered under my breath. Slowly, as I stroked the girl's brow, I wove my words around the fever, unfurling it like a cloth. The moment passed softly. Her small hand loosened, fingers unclenched. Her breathing eased. When Daya later found the girl still warm but sleeping peacefully, she thanked me and the rain. In truth, I had done nothing visible – only nudged the veil between how things were and what they might be, using my single, kind truth.
Through days drenched by rain, the village grew calmer as our rice fields drank deep. I learned that speaking truth to those who suffer did not mean proclaiming old grievances, but simply reassuring their hidden hope. Every evening I sat at our kitchen fire, listening to the stone scoops scraping lentils, and thought about how truth is a gently guiding hand.