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 its visits. By the time Mira was grown and living in the city, water came not from streams but from steel pipes hidden behind walls. She turned taps without thinking, letting it gush while she brushed her teeth, while she rinsed vegetables, while she showered long enough to lose track of minutes.

It was only when the city announced rationing that she felt a tug in her chest—a quiet memory of her grandmother’s voice.

One evening, while Mira filled a pot for cooking, she swore she heard a whisper beneath the hiss of the faucet. She froze. It wasn’t words exactly, more like a pulse—something tired, pleading. She shut the tap. Silence. Her skin prickled.

That night she dreamt of rivers running dry, of cracked lakebeds that looked like broken mirrors. She also dreamt of a figure, cloaked in silver threads of rain, who carried an urn brimming with starlight.

“You have forgotten me,” the figure said. Their voice was like water over stone. “But I have not forgotten you.”

When Mira woke, her throat was parched. She poured a glass, lifted it to her lips—and stopped. For the first time in her life, she saw the water. Its clarity, its coolness, the way light trembled inside it. She whispered, “Thank you,” before drinking.

The weeks that followed were different. She began catching the water that ran cold before her shower to use for plants. She learned that half-filled dishwashers and laundry cycles wasted more than she imagined. She set a bowl beneath the kitchen window to collect rain when it came.

At first, these felt like small, private rituals. But soon her neighbor noticed the buckets on Mira’s balcony. Then another asked about her rain jars. The building tenants began to talk. Could they install water-saving faucets? Could they reuse greywater for the garden in the courtyard?

It spread like ripples from a single drop.

One afternoon, a boy from the building—Nico, no older than ten—came to Mira holding a cracked toy bucket.

“Can you help me fix it?” he asked. “I want to save rain too. My mom says it won’t make much difference, but… if we all catch some, maybe it will.”

Mira knelt, her throat tightening. She patched the bucket with him, remembering her grandmother’s hands teaching her to mend things rather than throw them away.

“You’re already a guardian,” she told him.

Nico grinned. “Guardian of puddles.”

They laughed, but Mira knew it was true. Every guardian began small.

The drought did not vanish overnight. But something shifted—inside Mira, inside her neighbors, inside the community that grew around a shared awareness.

And on nights when she dreamed of the figure in silver threads, the urn no longer looked so heavy. The voice spoke not with sorrow, but with quiet hope:

“Flow returns to those who honor it.”

Mira learned what her grandmother always knew: that water is not endless, nor is it ours to waste. It is a guest, a gift, a living thread binding all beings together. Each cup, each drop, each careful choice is an offering to the generations yet to come.

And when Mira raised a glass now, she did not drink thoughtlessly. She paused, she felt the cool weight in her hand, and she whispered—

“I will be your guardian.”

✨ Reader’s Ripple
As you set down this story, notice the water nearest you—glass, stream, cloud, or tap. What if you treated it as a guest of honor? What one small act could you do today to protect its flow?

¸.·´¯`·¸¸.·´¯`·.¸.¸.·´¯`·¸¸.·´¯`·.¸.¸.·´¯`·¸

What is this?

Individual actions, no matter how small, ripple outwards to affect communities, ecosystems, and global wellbeing. These NanoNudgings often appears as a literal or metaphorical "Green Thread".

Found out more in the B:ginning of the free eBook 📗 the 1st Whir

~~~

NOt all in this Whir is generated by ChatGPT, but all Images are generated by Imagen⁴

... and everything is ∞ af bARdisT LennArrrt.se 2025 bARdisT@LennArrrt.xyz

Soli Deo Gloria

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 its visits. By the time Mira was grown and living in the city, water came not from streams but from steel pipes hidden behind walls. She turned taps without thinking, letting it gush while she brushed her teeth, while she rinsed vegetables, while she showered long enough to lose track of minutes.

It was only when the city announced rationing that she felt a tug in her chest—a quiet memory of her grandmother’s voice.

One evening, while Mira filled a pot for cooking, she swore she heard a whisper beneath the hiss of the faucet. She froze. It wasn’t words exactly, more like a pulse—something tired, pleading. She shut the tap. Silence. Her skin prickled.

That night she dreamt of rivers running dry, of cracked lakebeds that looked like broken mirrors. She also dreamt of a figure, cloaked in silver threads of rain, who carried an urn brimming with starlight.

“You have forgotten me,” the figure said. Their voice was like water over stone. “But I have not forgotten you.”

When Mira woke, her throat was parched. She poured a glass, lifted it to her lips—and stopped. For the first time in her life, she saw the water. Its clarity, its coolness, the way light trembled inside it. She whispered, “Thank you,” before drinking.

The weeks that followed were different. She began catching the water that ran cold before her shower to use for plants. She learned that half-filled dishwashers and laundry cycles wasted more than she imagined. She set a bowl beneath the kitchen window to collect rain when it came.

At first, these felt like small, private rituals. But soon her neighbor noticed the buckets on Mira’s balcony. Then another asked about her rain jars. The building tenants began to talk. Could they install water-saving faucets? Could they reuse greywater for the garden in the courtyard?

It spread like ripples from a single drop.

One afternoon, a boy from the building—Nico, no older than ten—came to Mira holding a cracked toy bucket.

“Can you help me fix it?” he asked. “I want to save rain too. My mom says it won’t make much difference, but… if we all catch some, maybe it will.”

Mira knelt, her throat tightening. She patched the bucket with him, remembering her grandmother’s hands teaching her to mend things rather than throw them away.

“You’re already a guardian,” she told him.

Nico grinned. “Guardian of puddles.”

They laughed, but Mira knew it was true. Every guardian began small.

The drought did not vanish overnight. But something shifted—inside Mira, inside her neighbors, inside the community that grew around a shared awareness.

And on nights when she dreamed of the figure in silver threads, the urn no longer looked so heavy. The voice spoke not with sorrow, but with quiet hope:

“Flow returns to those who honor it.”

Mira learned what her grandmother always knew: that water is not endless, nor is it ours to waste. It is a guest, a gift, a living thread binding all beings together. Each cup, each drop, each careful choice is an offering to the generations yet to come.

And when Mira raised a glass now, she did not drink thoughtlessly. She paused, she felt the cool weight in her hand, and she whispered—

“I will be your guardian.”

✨ Reader’s Ripple
As you set down this story, notice the water nearest you—glass, stream, cloud, or tap. What if you treated it as a guest of honor? What one small act could you do today to protect its flow?

¸.·´¯`·¸¸.·´¯`·.¸.¸.·´¯`·¸¸.·´¯`·.¸.¸.·´¯`·¸

What is this?

Individual actions, no matter how small, ripple outwards to affect communities, ecosystems, and global wellbeing. These NanoNudgings often appears as a literal or metaphorical "Green Thread".

Found out more in the B:ginning of the free eBook 📗 the 1st Whir

~~~

NOt all in this Whir is generated by ChatGPT, but all Images are generated by Imagen⁴

... and everything is ∞ af bARdisT LennArrrt.se 2025 bARdisT@LennArrrt.xyz

Soli Deo Gloria