The village of Kalumbayan sat nestled between the sea and the cliffs, its bamboo huts swaying gently in the wind. Children ran barefoot through the dusty paths, their laughter echoing off the coconut trees. Fishermen mended nets. Mothers pounded rice. And in the middle of it all was Lira—small, quiet, and always with her thumb in her mouth.
She wasn't a baby. She was nearly eight. But the thumb-suck had stayed, like a secret she refused to let go.
"Lira, you'll never grow up if you keep doing that," Cindy teased, skipping beside her on the way to school.
Lira didn't answer. She kept her thumb tucked in, her eyes scanning the sky.
Timmy joined in. "Maybe she thinks her thumb is magic!"
Lira paused. "It helps me listen."
"To what?" Cindy scoffed. "The wind?"
Lira nodded. "Yes."
They laughed and ran ahead, leaving her behind. But Lira didn't mind. She walked slowly, letting the breeze brush her cheeks. The wind whispered again, soft and clear: Patience, child. One day, they will know.
That night, as the moon rose over the sea, Lira sat by the window of her hut. Her mother, Aling Rosa, was weaving baskets nearby.
"You're quiet tonight," her mother said.
"I heard something," Lira murmured.
Aling Rosa didn't laugh. She never did. "What did the wind say?"
"That I should be patient."
Her mother smiled. "Then be patient. The wind has never lied to you."
Outside, the waves curled against the shore. Inside, Lira sucked her thumb and listened