I am the tiniest of travelers, a droplet of water, falling from the whispering clouds. My descent is a mission—a journey to the earth, carrying stories untold from the skies.
Beneath me, I see a broom—stoic, wooden, with bristles splayed like fingers yearning for a touch. The broom speaks in creaks and sways, its voice tangled in the wind and mine mingling with the rhythm of the rain.
"Do you see the world, little one?" the broom's voice asks, quivering under my weight.
"I see shadows of the street lanterns, the outlines of forgotten paths," I reply, a tinge of wonder in my tone, "Do you sweep them into dreams, longings of dust and echoes?"
A silence follows, the kind that stretches like the horizon, vast and uncontained.
"I gather tales of the night," the broom confesses, its bristles whispering secrets, "The stories left by footsteps that never return."
Wondering, I tell the broom of stars hidden in the clouds, of voices carried by the breeze—fragments of conversations never meant for human ears.
The rain continues to fall, a symphony unending, as we share our tales—me, a single droplet, and the broom, an ancient keeper of stories.