Nura was already in the courtyard when the sunset bell sounded, kneeling beside the big clay water jars with her feet tucked under her on the cool stones. She liked to count them in order, the same way every night: one, two, three, four. The jars stood along the whitewashed wall like quiet guards, round-bellied and heavy, their mouths covered with cloth to keep out dust.
She lifted the cloth from the first jar and dipped in a small cup. Water shimmered inside. Good. She moved to the next jar, then the next. But when she checked the fourth jar, the cup touched the bottom sooner than it should have.
Nura blinked and tried again. The water was lower. Not just a little lower. Lower enough that she could see more of the jar’s inside than yesterday.
A dry wind slid through the courtyard gate, carrying a sip of dust and warm air. It skimmed over the jars, rattled the laundry on the roof stairs, and made the fig leaves tremble. Somewhere nearby, one of the animals gave a soft thirsty sound.
Nura pressed her lips together. Maybe she had miscounted. Maybe someone had used extra water without telling her. But the jars did not feel like a normal check anymore. If they were this low at sunset, there might not be enough for the sleepers, the plants, and the animals by morning.
She stood still beside the jars, cup in hand, looking from the gate to the sleeping rooms to the central cistern and back again. She could stay here and count again. She could run to tell the others. Or she could try to slow the loss before the wind took even more.
What happens next?
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