Lunka hosts the rain table – an old slate slab set between two trellises, catching every rooftop drip from the western gutters.
She’s a measurer.
Every puddle tells her something: when the apricot tree needs trimming, when Brindle's bell tilts a hair too low, when the laundry roof’s started sagging.
The blush bloom on her side keeps track of the sunny hours; the dotted trail records the rain.
Once a week, neighbors come by to ask her readings.
“Two millimeters too much last night,” she told Tavrin this morning. “Your butterfly plank’s going to warp.”
Tavrin nodded, adjusted the plank.