The days after the storm were filled with rebuilding. Bamboo poles were cut, roofs were patched, and boats were repaired. The villagers worked together, but whispers about Lira spread quietly among them.
"She saved us," some said. "She only guessed," others muttered. "Maybe it was luck," a few insisted.
Lira felt the weight of their eyes. Some looked at her with gratitude, others with suspicion. She walked through the village with her thumb tucked in her mouth, listening to the wind.
Do not fear their doubt, the voice whispered. Truth is stronger than disbelief.
But doubt was heavy. Elder Ramos approached her one evening, his staff tapping against the ground. "Child," he said, "you led us to safety, yes. But storms come often. How do we know you are not simply imagining things?"
Lira removed her thumb, her voice steady. "Because the wind speaks. And it has never lied."
The elder frowned. "Words of the wind cannot be proven."
Her mother stepped forward. "And yet, without her, we would not be alive."
The elder sighed, torn between reason and faith. "Perhaps. But the village cannot depend on whispers alone."
That night, Lira sat by the shore, the sea glowing silver under the moon. She felt the doubt pressing against her like waves. But the wind curled around her, whispering: Doubt is the shadow of truth. Let them doubt. You will prove it again.