The mountain had always been silent, its slopes green with trees and its peak hidden in mist. But one morning, as the villagers gathered to mend nets, the ground beneath their feet shivered. It was faint, like the heartbeat of the earth, but enough to make bowls rattle and children cry out.
"Did you feel that?" Cindy whispered, clutching Timmy's arm.
Timmy nodded, his face pale. "The ground moved."
The villagers murmured, fear creeping into their voices. Elder Ramos leaned heavily on his staff. "It is nothing," he said, though his eyes betrayed unease. "Mountains do not move."
But Lira stood still, thumb pressed against her lips, listening. The tremor was not just movement—it was a voice. Deep, rumbling, ancient.
I stir. I wake. My silence breaks.
Her heart thudded. She turned to the villagers. "The mountain speaks. It says it is waking."
Gasps filled the square. Mothers pulled children close, fishermen exchanged worried glances.
Dario stepped forward, his voice sharp. "She frightens us again with tales. A tremor is nothing. The mountain has stood for centuries."
But Aling Rosa's voice rose above his. "She warned us of storms. She warned us of fire. Will you ignore her again?"
The villagers hesitated, torn between fear and doubt. Lira sucked her thumb, listening as the whispers curled around her ears: Prepare. The earth will roar.