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Inside a sunlit clay hut beside the dry Pakamagayo river, Naira kneels over a woven backpack, tucking in a small map and gourd while brown fields stretch beyond the doorway.
Pakamagayo Valley nestled between green hills. The river once sang; now it is silent. Crops browned. The elder said, 'Awaken the song stone.' No adult dared to go to that mountain. Naira packed, whispering, 'Maybe courage is just walking, even when your knees shake.'
On a narrow jungle trail under mottled morning light, Naira pushes aside dripping vines while a bright-beaked hornbill named Hontutu perches on a low branch above her, mist curling between huge leaves and mossy trunks.
Naira parted jungle vines. A hornbill landed: 'I am Hontutu.' 'I'll guide you,' he warned, 'the mountain echoes fears.' 'Okay,' Naira said, 'I'll step anyway.' They climbed; leaves whispered.
In the dim cave mouth lit by her lantern, Naira knots a thick vine to the splintered post of a broken bridge over a dark chasm as the hornbill Hontutu grips the vine beside a glassy mirror pond.
At a dark cave, whispers hissed, 'Too small.' Naira said, 'Small steps reach.' A broken bridge loomed. Trembling, she knotted vines; Hontutu steadied. At a mirror pond, she smiled, 'I can do this.'
On the windswept mountain peak at sunrise, Naira presses both palms against a cracked stone monolith etched with spirals; golden light radiates from the fracture, illuminating her smiling face and the distant, newly gleaming river.
At the peak, a cracked song stone waited. Naira touched it and sang her mother's lullaby. Light bloomed; the river below sang again. A calm voice said, 'Courage lives in those who try.' Villagers cheered when Naira returned.