The storm had passed, but the whispers did not fade. Lira found herself hearing them not only from the sea and the wind, but from the rustling of the trees that lined the village paths.
One afternoon, as she walked beneath the coconut palms, thumb tucked in her mouth, she paused. The leaves swayed though the air was still. A murmur rose, soft and strange: Danger does not always come from the sea. Look to the land.
She frowned. "The land?" she whispered.
Cindy, walking beside her, tilted her head. "What did you hear?"
"The trees spoke," Lira said. "They say danger will come from the land."
Timmy, carrying a basket of fish, laughed nervously. "Trees don't talk."
But Lira's eyes were steady. "They do. If you listen."
That evening, she told her mother. Aling Rosa's face grew serious. "Perhaps it means sickness. Or fire. Or something we cannot see yet."
The elders gathered again, and Lira spoke of the trees' warning. Elder Ramos frowned. "Storms we can understand. But trees? This is harder to believe."
Dario, standing at the edge of the circle, smirked. "Soon she'll say the stones speak too. How long will you let a child guide us?"
The villagers murmured uneasily. Some nodded at Dario's words, others shook their heads.
But Lira sucked her thumb, listening. The trees whispered again, louder this time: Beware the fire. Beware the hunger.
She shivered. Something was coming, and it would not be water this time.