Midmorning rain falls across the mist-laced hills of Sanma, each drop carrying the chill of a sky that remembers warmth. The steady pulse of Rain-a blends with the distant rumble of Low Thunder 1-a, while Whisper 2-a drifts like a half-remembered lullaby from an elder's voice. Spirit 2-b hovers beneath the storm, a spectral echo of ancestral presence in the damp air. This is the hush before breath returns to the body, the quiet that meets you when you sit cross-legged beneath a bamboo roof and l