On the top shelf, next to the clock, lived Grandma's listening horn. It was big and brass and curly, like a giant golden ear. Mia looked up at it every day.
"What does it do?" she asked one quiet evening, when the garden had turned dusky blue.
"It catches sounds," said Grandma. "Small sounds. Shy sounds." She lifted it down with both hands. "Shall we listen?"
Mia pressed her ear to the little end. Grandma pointed the big end at the clock. Tock. TOCK. The clock sounded as big as a drum! Mia laughed, and the laugh went down the horn and came back all tickly.
They pointed the horn at the cat. Her purr rumbled like a tiny engine. They pointed it at the kettle. It whispered a warm little song.
Then — pit. Pat. Pit-pat. Rain! It had started to rain in the dark garden.
"Quick," said Grandma. "Rain is the best listening of all."
They snuggled under the soft blue blanket by the open window. Grandma held the horn out to the night, and Mia listened. The rain tapped on the leaves. It drummed on the shed roof. It plinked in the water barrel. Each drop had its own little voice.
"I can hear ALL of it," whispered Mia.
Grandma smiled and pulled the blanket up higher. Then it was her turn with the horn, and then Mia's again, taking turns while the garden drank its rain.
The rain went on, soft and steady. Mia's eyes felt heavy. The horn was warm where her cheek rested against it.
"Time for bed, little listener," said Grandma. But Mia was already half asleep, with the rain's little voices in her ears, all the way till morning.