Days passed, and the village began to rebuild. Men repaired boats, women wove new mats, and children carried bamboo poles to help. But everywhere Lira went, eyes followed her—not with mockery, but with cautious respect.
Timmy approached her one morning, carrying a broken paddle. "Can you… hear anything about fishing?" he asked awkwardly.
Lira smiled faintly. "The sea says to wait. The waters are still angry."
He nodded, accepting her words without question.
Cindy joined her later, holding a basket of rice. "Do you think the wind will warn us again?"
"It always warns," Lira said. "But only if we listen."
The elders began to consult her quietly. Elder Ramos came to her hut one evening, bowing his head. "Child, what do the voices say now?"
Lira sucked her thumb, closing her eyes. The wind curled around her ears, whispering: Peace for now. But storms return.
She opened her eyes. "It says we are safe—for now."
The elder nodded gravely. "Then we will trust you."
For the first time, Lira felt the weight of responsibility. The whispers were not just for her—they were for everyone. She was no longer simply the girl with a habit. She was becoming the girl who listened to the wind.
That night, as the stars glittered above the sea, she whispered to herself: "Maybe silence can speak louder than words."
And the wind answered, brushing her hair like a gentle hand: Yes