The scent in the air had changed.
Charlisa stood at the edge of the river, now reduced to a slow-moving stream that carved its way through exposed stone. The once lush green banks were dusted with golden leaves, and the sky, while cloudless, held a strange, parched stillness. The bloom season was retreating. The dry winds were coming.
The villagers had begun preparing even before the signs were obvious—before the birds grew restless or the scent of crushed herbs rose sharper in the air. Tools were checked. Roofs inspected. Water-stores doubled. The village itself moved like a body bracing for tension, every gesture more precise, deliberate.
Even the children had become quieter.
Charlisa remembered something her grandmother Vina had once told her, back in the other world:
> "Before the change comes, nature holds its breath. That pause—it teaches us to listen."
Here, that wisdom was alive in every corner of the village.
She turned toward the communal grounds, where thick slabs of woven grass were being laid out to dry. Women pounded herbs into powders and ground dried roots into preserves for medicine and tea. Cloths were soaked in pungent oils and hung to dry—a barrier against biting insects and dry air fevers.
Kael was there too, helping reinforce the main food store. He stood shirtless in the sun, skin glistening with sweat, long limbs taut with effort as he secured beams against the wind. His silver-streaked hair, tied loosely at the nape, swayed like brushed metal in the sunlight. His laugh was rare lately, replaced by a quiet focus that Charlisa both admired and ached for.
Later, when dusk painted the sky in burnt orange and soft plum, she sat beside him outside their shelter, both of them sipping from clay mugs filled with warm nut broth and wild ginger.
"It feels... tighter," she said quietly, looking up at the stars.
Kael didn't ask what she meant. He always seemed to know.
"This season teaches restraint. The body grows tense before the land cracks. Tempers rise. Water vanishes. Patience is survival."
Charlisa watched the horizon where the last color drained from the sky.
"I wonder if I'll ever stop noticing everything like it's new."
He looked at her then, eyes softening, lavender and dusk-shadowed.
"I hope not."
---
That night, as the dry wind crept through the walls with its raspy breath, Charlisa wrapped herself closer to him. Outside, the bones on the village rooftops clinked softly—a sound like memory rattling through wood and stone.
And inside, she felt it again.
The land teaching her to listen.