The ashfall did not stop. For three days and nights, the sky remained dark, the air thick with dust. Fires burned faintly on the mountain's slopes, glowing like eyes in the distance.
The villagers grew restless. Food was scarce, water harder to find. Children whimpered in hunger, and the elders whispered prayers.
Dario grew louder in his defiance. "We cannot stay here forever," he said bitterly. "We will starve in this cave. Better to risk the ash than to waste away."
Some villagers nodded, fear gnawing at their resolve. But Lira sucked her thumb, listening. The whispers curled around her ears, steady and calm: Patience. The ash will pass. The sky will clear. Endure.
She removed her thumb, her voice firm. "The wind says we must wait. If we leave now, the ash will kill us. But if we endure, the sky will clear."
Cindy spoke up, her voice trembling but brave. "She has never been wrong. We must trust her."
Timmy added, "She saved us from storms, from fire, from hunger. If she says wait, then we wait."
Slowly, the villagers quieted. Even Elder Ramos bowed his head. "We will endure the long night."
And so they did. They rationed food, shared water, and comforted one another. The cave became their refuge, their sanctuary against the mountain's fury.
On the fourth morning, the ash began to thin. The sky lightened, faint rays of sun piercing the gray. The villagers stepped cautiously outside, their faces streaked with dust, their eyes wide with relief.
The world was changed—trees stripped bare, huts buried, the sea darkened—but they were alive.
And at the center of it all stood Lira, the girl with the thumb of silence, who had guided them once more through the darkness.