Lydia lay in her bed, still deep in sleep.
Her room was dim. The lamps that had burned through the night had gone out long ago, leaving only the faint shadow of furniture and the soft shape of her body under the sheets.
It was very early. Dawn was still far from fully waking the sky. Outside, the world was still dark, almost black.
Then, it began to rain.
At first it was only a whisper, like soft fingers brushing against the roof and windows. Then it grew steadier, the gentle patter becoming a quiet rhythm.
The moment the sound began, Lydia's body shifted. She turned from one side to the other, her hair falling loose across the pillow. Her forehead became damp with sweat. A small sound left her lips — a soft whimper, the kind someone might make when they are frightened or hurting in a dream.
Her hands gripped the sheet tightly. Her body twisted as if she was fighting against something only she could see. Her breath came fast.
