“Where is it?” she asked the wind.

The wind did not answer in words. It never did. But it tugged a single strand of her black hair toward the limestone caves behind the waterfall—a waterfall that had not flowed in three months.

And every year after, before the first planting, Senya would climb the banyan tree, lean into the breeze, and ask: “Where shall we go next?” The wind always answered—not with words, but with trust.

That year, the dry season had stretched too long, and the well at the center of Kampong Trach was a cracked mouth, dry and silent. The rice seedlings curled like dying insects. The elders argued. Some prayed to the neak ta, the spirit of the land. Others wanted to dig deeper. But Senya simply climbed the old banyan tree at the edge of the forest, closed her eyes, and turned her face to the east.