A slow drizzle settles through the bamboo groves outside Kumasi, each drop muffled by broad banana leaves and the hush of deep night. Distant thunder rolls like a breathing drum, its low pulse syncing with the whisper of wind through the trees. Crickets hum beneath it all, their evening hymn softened into something tender and unhurried. This is the quiet that wraps around a sleeper, a lullaby stitched from rain and memory.