The days after my father and Mr. Gareth returned from the city were quiet, yet different.
At first, everything seemed normal.
The children still played in the rice fields, our laughter echoing over the golden grass.
But the adults spoke less.
And when they did, their voices were low, like they were hiding something from the wind.
At night, the lanterns stayed lit longer than usual, and I sometimes saw my father standing outside, staring at the dark horizon, listening.
Even though I was only five years old, I could feel it the air had changed.
The peace we once knew now carried a silence that wasn't gentle anymore.
The Rice and the River
Morning came with songs.
Anna, Goru, Jack, Twilight, and Edwin were already by the river washing baskets.
The sound of water splashing mixed with laughter.
Jack, as always, was trying to catch fish with his bare hands.
"You'll never catch them, Jack!" Goru shouted, laughing.
"The fish are smarter than you!"
Jack glared at him, his hands dripping water.
"At least I'm trying! Maybe you should learn from me, Rice Hero!"
Everyone laughed even me, though my laugh was more of a squeaky sound.
The air was filled with joy, and for a while, we forgot everything else.
But when we returned home, my father stood by the storehouse door, holding a half-empty rice basket.
"This was full last night," he said quietly to my mother.
My mother looked at me, then at him.
She forced a smile.
"Maybe someone took the wrong one."
But I could tell she didn't believe her own words.
The Children's Game
That afternoon, we played a new game.
Twilight called it The Rice Keeper.
One of us would guard the rice, and the others would try to sneak and steal it.
We played until our feet were covered in dust and our clothes smelled of straw.
When it was Goru's turn to guard, he stood tall, holding a stick like a sword.
His eyes were sharp, serious too serious for a child.
"If anyone steals from the village," he said, "we have to protect what we grow."
Jack laughed and shouted,
"Then you'll guard the world, Rice Hero!"
Everyone burst into laughter, even Goru.
But for a moment, I saw something in his eyes not pride, not anger, but a flicker of fear.
That Evening
That night, my mother brushed my hair beside the fire while my father sat by the doorway, sharpening his sickle.
The sound of metal against stone filled the silence.
"Things are changing," my father said quietly.
My mother stopped brushing.
"What do you mean?" she asked softly.
He didn't answer.
He only looked into the fire.
His eyes reflected the flames, glowing like a man watching his own thoughts burn.
That was the first night I saw worry on his face.
And even though I was only five, I understood something was coming.
The Village Meeting
The next morning, my father called for a meeting.
The whole village gathered beneath the old tree at the center of Fernstead.
Men, women, and children everyone came, even those who were busy at the rice farms.
The air was heavy with whispers.
Crops and food had been disappearing for weeks now.
Some thought it was wild animals.
Others believed it was someone among us.
The children, including me, sat in a corner, listening quietly as the elders argued.
Mr. Gareth spoke first.
"We can't survive like this. If our harvest keeps vanishing, we'll have nothing left to trade."
Another elder added,
"Maybe the spirits of the forest are angry. We must give an offering."
But my father stood up, his voice cutting through the noise.
"No spirit takes rice and hides it. Someone is stealing from us."
The crowd went silent.
Even the children stopped whispering.
He looked around at everyone not with anger, but with disappointment.
"We must protect our home. If we lose the harvest, we lose the village."
After a long silence, he turned to my mother and said,
"Why don't you call your sister, Merlin? She's the city guard captain. Tell her to send a few men to help us watch the borders."
The moment he said that, my mother looked away.
Her eyes darkened.
She didn't reply.
The rest of the villagers murmured among themselves some agreed, others didn't.
When the meeting ended, the village didn't feel the same anymore.
The laughter was gone.
The warmth of the rice fields felt colder.
Everyone looked at each other differently not with trust, but with quiet suspicion.
The Night of Voices
That night, I heard shouting again.
My mother and father their voices echoed through the small house.
I didn't understand the words, but I knew the sound of pain when I heard it.
I sat by the door, hugging my knees, listening to their anger crash like thunder.
It was the first time I felt afraid of the dark.
When the shouting stopped, I heard my mother crying softly.
And my father walked out into the night, the smell of rice wine following him.
That was the night I learned peace never lasts forever.
Even in a village like ours.