Whispers of the wind

The wind carried secrets through the valley, weaving through the golden fields and whispering against the old oak trees. It had a voice—a soft, ethereal murmur that only the most attuned ears could hear. Elara had been listening to it since childhood, deciphering its messages as if it were a dear friend sharing stories only meant for her.

Born in a small village nestled between towering mountains, Elara had always been different. While the other children played by the river, she sat quietly beneath the great willow, her fingers tracing patterns in the earth as she listened. The villagers called her strange, but her grandmother, wise with age and filled with tales of the past, simply smiled. “The wind chooses its listeners,” she had once said. “And it has chosen you.”

One crisp autumn morning, the whispers grew urgent. The wind no longer hummed its usual songs of rustling leaves and distant lands. It carried a warning.

Elara stood at the edge of the village, her heart beating in rhythm with the breeze. “What is it?” she whispered back, hoping for clarity. The wind swirled around her, ruffling her dark hair, before rushing toward the mountains. She understood. Something was coming.

Determined, she ran to the village square where the elders sat in council. “We must prepare,” she urged, breathless. “The wind speaks of a great storm.”

The elders exchanged wary glances. They had long humored her gift, but heeding it was another matter. “The sky is clear,” Elder Harron said, peering at the vast blue above. “There is no sign of trouble.”

“The wind knows before we do,” Elara insisted. But their doubts hung in the air like a storm cloud refusing to break. Frustrated, she turned away. If they would not listen, she would prepare on her own.

She spent the day gathering supplies—dried meats, water skins, blankets. As dusk fell, the wind howled through the valley, no longer a whisper but a cry. That night, the first raindrops fell.

By morning, the storm had arrived in full force. Rain lashed against the rooftops, rivers swelled, and trees bowed beneath the furious wind. The villagers scrambled for shelter, their panic evident. When the floodwaters rushed in, Elara's preparations became their salvation. She guided them to higher ground, using the wind’s whispers to anticipate the worst moments of the storm.

For two days, the Tempest raged, reshaping the land with its fury. When at last it passed, leaving behind a changed valley, the villagers gathered in awe. The flood had washed away homes, but no lives were lost. They turned to Elara with new eyes—ones that no longer saw her as strange, but as someone who had saved them.

Elder Harron stepped forward, his voice humbled. “We should have listened.”

Elara simply smiled, her gaze lifting to the sky. The wind danced around her, carrying gratitude in its unseen arms. And for the first time, the village listened—not just to her, but to the whispers of the wind.

Born in a small village nestled between towering mountains, Elara had always been different. While the other children played by the river, she sat quietly beneath the great willow, her fingers tracing patterns in the earth as she listened. The villagers called her strange, but her grandmother, wise with age and filled with tales of the past, simply smiled. “The wind chooses its listeners,” she had once said. “And it has chosen you.”

One crisp autumn morning, the whispers grew urgent. The wind no longer hummed its usual songs of rustling leaves and distant lands. It carried a warning.

Elara stood at the edge of the village, her heart beating in rhythm with the breeze. “What is it?” she whispered back, hoping for clarity. The wind swirled around her, ruffling her dark hair, before rushing toward the mountains. She understood. Something was coming.