The village had begun to rebuild, but cracks were forming—not in bamboo walls, but in hearts. Some villagers trusted Lira completely, remembering the storms, the fire, and the mountain. Others whispered doubts, stirred by Dario's sharp tongue.
"She saved us," Cindy argued one morning as she carried water from the river. "Without her, we would be gone."
"But what if she is wrong next time?" a fisherman muttered. "We cannot depend on a child forever."
Dario's voice carried across the square. "She makes us weak. We wait for her whispers instead of using our own strength. What happens when the wind is silent?"
The villagers murmured, torn between gratitude and fear. Elder Ramos raised his staff, his face weary. "We must not fight among ourselves. Division will destroy us faster than storms."
But the seeds had been planted. Some gathered around Lira, seeking her guidance. Others drifted toward Dario, listening to his doubts.
Lira felt the tension pressing against her like heavy air. She sucked her thumb, listening. The wind curled around her ears, whispering: Shadows grow when trust is broken. Heal them, or they will fall apart.
She gazed at the villagers, her heart heavy. The danger was no longer fire or ash—it was division.