The morning broke with a strange stillness. The air was thick, heavy, as if the sky itself was holding its breath. Fishermen who usually pushed their boats out at dawn hesitated, staring at the horizon. The sea looked darker, its surface restless.
Children played in the dusty paths, but even their laughter seemed muted. Lira walked slowly, thumb tucked in her mouth, listening. The whispers were louder now, urgent and insistent: Tonight, the roofs will fall. Find shelter.
She stopped in the middle of the path, her heart pounding. Cindy, carrying a basket of rice, noticed her. "Why are you standing there like a statue?"
"The wind says the roofs will fall," Lira murmured.
Cindy frowned. "You're scaring me."
Timmy, who had overheard, laughed nervously. "She's just making it up again. Look at the sky—it's fine."
But even as he spoke, a flock of birds rose suddenly from the trees, flying inland. The villagers paused, watching. It was unusual. Birds always stayed near the shore.
Aling Rosa came to her daughter's side. "We must go to the cave," she said firmly.
"The cave?" Cindy asked.
"Yes," Lira replied. "It will keep us safe."
Her mother nodded, but the villagers still hesitated. They had never trusted the whispers of a child. Yet the clouds above were thickening, and the air smelled of rain.
By afternoon, the sky had turned gray. The wind picked up, rattling the palm leaves. Mothers called their children indoors. Fishermen pulled their boats back to shore.
Lira stood at the edge of the village, thumb pressed against her lips, listening. The whispers curled around her like a chant: Prepare. Prepare. Prepare.