The fire had left more than ashes—it had destroyed much of the village's food. Rice baskets were burned, fishing nets ruined, and the small granary reduced to charred wood.
Days passed, and hunger crept into Kalumbayan. Children cried at night, mothers rationed what little remained, and fishermen returned empty-handed from the sea.
Lira felt the whispers pressing against her ears: Hunger will test them. Guide them to share. Guide them to endure.
She stood in the square, thumb tucked in her mouth, and spoke. "We must share what we have. No one should starve while others eat."
The villagers murmured. Some nodded, others frowned. Dario stepped forward, his voice sharp. "Why should we listen to her again? She is just a child. We must fend for ourselves."
But Cindy raised her voice. "She saved us from storms. She warned us of fire. If she says we must share, then we should."
Timmy added, "She's right. If we fight among ourselves, hunger will win."
Slowly, the villagers began to bring what little food they had—fish, rice, bananas—and placed them in the square. It was not much, but it was enough to keep everyone alive for now.
Elder Ramos bowed his head. "You have guided us again, child. Without you, we would have fallen to despair."
Lira sucked her thumb, listening. The wind curled around her ears, whispering: You are the keeper of silence. Your voice is not in words, but in truth.
She looked at the villagers, their faces lit by the small fire they had rebuilt for warmth. Hunger's shadow lingered, but hope had returned.