The fire was beginning to fade, the logs hissing with the moisture soaked deep from the rains. Kael added a fresh piece of dry wood from the pile and coaxed the flame back to life. Charlisa leaned against him, content, when a distant rhythm caught her attention.
Drums.
Not the urgent call of warning, nor the somber thrum of mourning—but a playful, lilting beat that echoed through the damp trees like a heartbeat wrapped in laughter.
Kael grinned. "It's the Night of Returning Frogs."
Charlisa raised a brow, amused. "That's a real thing?"
"Very real. It's when the first chorus of river frogs returns after the drought. Some believe they carry the laughter of the fertility spirits in their throats."
"And so naturally… you throw a party?" she asked, smirking.
He stood and offered his hand. "We dance in the mud, chase frogs with the children, eat root fritters until our fingers are stained, and tell stories under dripping leaves. Come on—this will be your first."
---
The village clearing had transformed under the flickering glow of torches. Leaves glistened with moisture, and the firelight reflected off the pools that had formed between the stones. Children shrieked with glee, bare feet splashing through the mud, holding fat little frogs cupped in their palms.
The older villagers had set out woven baskets of fried root fritters, steaming from fresh oil, and rain-leaf tea served in wide clay cups. Some had painted frog shapes on their cheeks in green dye.
Kael and Charlisa arrived hand in hand, quickly swept into the mirth.
She was tugged into a circle of women who danced with bare feet and water-slicked skirts, hips swaying to a rhythm half-ancient, half-chaotic. Kael joined the men attempting to leap like frogs across puddles while being cheered—or mocked—by the elders on the sidelines.
Charlisa laughed so hard her belly ached, her hair sticking to her neck, her limbs alive.
Then, at the peak of the celebration, the drums stopped.
A hush spread as Elder Duma stepped forward, holding a large, leaf-wrapped bundle.
"The frogs have returned," she declared. "The land is singing again. Now we offer thanks—for what has come, and what may come still."
She unwrapped the bundle, revealing water flowers, picked that morning from the mountain pools. One by one, villagers came forward, placed their offerings in the central basin, and whispered blessings.
Kael nudged Charlisa gently. "This is for us too."
Together, they stepped forward. Charlisa held a single flower in her hand, its petals a pale purple streaked with white—soft, delicate, trembling. She pressed it to her lips, then let it float into the water.
> "May the soul we invite come gently," she whispered, "with laughter, with curiosity, and with kindness."
The crowd murmured their approval, and someone nearby began a soft frog-call with their mouth. Laughter returned, followed by music, and dancing resumed in the wet grass.
---
Later that night, soaked to the bone, Charlisa and Kael returned home under a silver-draped moon. They collapsed onto their shared mat, breathless, hearts full.
Charlisa turned to him, tracing a drop of water down his cheek. "Do you think… when they come… we'll tell them about the frogs?"
Kael grinned. "Every year."