I awoke in the night, still warm beneath the counterpane. Outside the open window a steady rain was falling, tapping the leaves on the maples, dripping from the eaves, splattering the pavement.
I lay awake and listened to sound of the rain. It filled my ears, like a cascading brook. The night air was cool and damp; the bed warm.
And then I heard a new sound, a sound coming in through the rain from somewhere far away; a tinkling sound. At first the pattern varied, then it settled into a series of notes, barely perceptible, yet present: a wind chime calling through the rain, a still small voice.
I drifted back to sleep and dreamed a dream: a sonata drifted along on a gentle breeze by the shore of a lake. The breeze touched my cheek; I turned, and a footpath leading into a dark green wood beckoned.