Somewhere in the small field of reeds that swayed gently like an organism breathing in the wind, Nana crouched down with a sickle in her hand, busy harvesting them for some thatch like she did every now and then.
The slender blades bowed and swayed. The gentle rustlings around her sounded like the soft patter of rain on a tin roof. More times it would sound to the ears like someone's footsteps were treading a path through the field.
Nana paused, holding her breath, and perking up her ears, and freezing up the stance of the sickle in her grip. She listened keenly to the wind. She felt her muscles tensing, her heartbeats quickening, her senses sharpening. Every nerve of hers urged her to react and probe the air.
The sixth sense told her she wasn't alone. There was an intruder. She turned
