Rema was asleep. She was dreaming of the yellow princess and her little farmer, the song the tiny birds snag for her last night. The best lullabies, as far as the tiny birds were concerned, were those that brought along a splash of tears, a bundle of smiles and a bag of stones to weigh down on the listeners’ hearts. The kind of stories that were as happy as they were sad. Last night’s had been such a story, such a song. The little one, Rema’s favourite, was drenched in its tears. And Rema seemed to be affected more by it than the story itself. What could beat that?
And even though she was sleeping, she wasn’t entirely asleep to the morning. There were times when she woke up for the sun. And that carried over to the times when she wasn’t awake. It was as if she was in the in-between, when
