The air in Kalumbayan grew heavy, though the sun still shone. Fishermen noticed their nets tugging strangely in the water, and mothers paused in their chores to glance at the horizon. Something was shifting, though no one wanted to say it aloud.
Lira felt it most of all. She walked slowly through the village, thumb tucked in her mouth, listening. The wind curled around her ears, whispering urgently: The storm is near. Tell them to prepare.
Her heart raced. She ran to her mother, who was mending a basket outside their hut. "Mama," she said breathlessly, "the sea warns me again. A storm is coming."
Aling Rosa's hands stilled. She looked at her daughter with worry, then nodded. "We should tell the elders."
Together they went to the council hut, where the village elders sat in a circle, their faces lined with years of salt and sun. Elder Ramos, the oldest, leaned on his carved staff.
"What brings you here, Rosa?" he asked.
"It is Lira," her mother replied. "She hears the wind. She says a storm is coming."
The elders exchanged glances. Some frowned, others chuckled.
"Storms are common," Elder Ramos said. "We have seen them before. Why should we listen to a child who still sucks her thumb?"
Lira's cheeks burned, but she stood tall. "Because the sea speaks to me. It says this storm will be different."
The council erupted in murmurs. One elder shook his head. "Nonsense. Children imagine things."
Another muttered, "She embarrasses herself."
But Aling Rosa placed a hand on her daughter's shoulder. "She has never lied. Perhaps we should listen."
The elders dismissed them with a wave of the hand. "Go home. We will prepare as we always do."
Outside, Lira clenched her fists. The whispers echoed in her chest, louder now, insistent: The roofs will fall. The waves will rise. Find shelter.
She looked at her mother. "They don't believe me."
Her mother's eyes softened. "Then we must prepare ourselves. Even if no one else does."
That night, as the village settled into uneasy sleep, Lira sat by the window, thumb pressed against her lips. The wind howled faintly through the bamboo walls, carrying a single word that chilled her to the bone: Soon.