The storm had left scars across Kalumbayan, but the people were alive. And for that, they owed everything to Lira.
The elders declared a day of thanksgiving. Mats were laid out in the square, baskets of rice and fish were shared, and children decorated the bamboo poles with woven palm leaves. The air smelled of roasted corn and sweet bananas, and for the first time in weeks, laughter filled the village.
At the center of it all sat Lira, her mother beside her. She sucked her thumb quietly, listening to the wind as the villagers approached with gifts—woven bracelets, carved shells, and even a small necklace of pearls.
"You saved us," Cindy said shyly, placing a flower crown on Lira's head. "You're braver than anyone I know."
Timmy scratched his head awkwardly. "I used to laugh at you. I'm sorry. You're… different. Special."
Lira removed her thumb, smiling faintly. "I only listened. The wind did the rest."
The villagers cheered, and Elder Ramos raised his staff. "Tonight, we honor the girl who listened to the wind. May her gift guide us always."
Music began—drums and bamboo flutes—and the people danced under the stars. But while joy filled the square, Lira felt the whispers curl around her ears: Celebration is brief. Shadows linger. Be watchful.
She smiled, but her heart remained cautious.