Mira had always loved the sound of running water. As a child, she would crouch beside the brook behind her grandmother’s house, cupping her hands in the current, watching dragonflies hover like jeweled guardians. Her grandmother would say, “Remember, child—water is alive. It listens, it remembers, it gives.” At the time, Mira thought it was just one of those soft, strange things elders said. Years passed. The brook thinned into a trickle. Summers grew hotter, and the rain became stingy with i...