The days that followed were uneasy. The villagers watched the mountain with wary eyes, though it remained silent, its slopes covered in green.
Lira walked alone to the edge of the forest, thumb tucked in her mouth, listening. The wind was faint, but the earth beneath her feet trembled slightly. She pressed her hand to the ground.
The mountain's heart stirs, the whisper came. Its silence will break.
She shivered. "What does it mean?"
That night, she dreamed again. She saw the mountain split open, fire spilling from its core, ash darkening the sky. She woke with a cry, sweat on her brow.
Her mother held her close. "Another dream?"
"Yes," Lira whispered. "The mountain will roar. We must prepare."
The next day, she told the villagers. Some believed, remembering the storms and the fire. Others shook their heads.
Dario scoffed. "Mountains do not roar. She frightens us with stories."
But Elder Ramos looked at Lira gravely. "If the mountain speaks, then we must be ready. We will gather food, water, and shelter."
The villagers began to prepare, though doubt lingered. Lira stood at the edge of the square, thumb pressed against her lips, listening. The wind curled around her ears, whispering: The silence will end. The earth will speak. Be strong.
She gazed at the mountain, its slopes glowing faintly in the setting sun. For the first time, she felt fear—not of storms or fire, but of something deeper, older, and far more powerful.