The soft rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of birds were the melodies of Malik's world. He stood at the edge of the east field, his calloused hands gripping the wooden handle of his hoe, the rich smell of tilled soil filling his senses. The sun was warm on his back, and the world around him seemed to hum with life.  

"My son, if you stare at the field long enough, it might just grow on its own."  

Malik turned to see his father approaching, his weathered face creased with a smile. Though the years had bent his frame, there was a strength in him that time could not take away.  

"I'm thinking," Malik replied, brushing a hand through his dark hair. "About what to plant next season."  

"Thinking is good," his father said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "But doing is better. These fields won't wait for a man's dreams."  

The village of Elmar was small, nestled in a valley surrounded by rolling hills and dense forests. Its people were farmers, craftsmen, and herders—simple folk who took pride in their work. Malik had spent his twenty-one years here, his world confined to the fertile soil and the close-knit community.  

In the evenings, the village square would come alive with chatter and laughter. Children chased each other through the cobblestone streets, their shrieks of joy echoing into the dusk. Old men sat by the fountain, spinning tales of the "great beyond," a world far from Elmar's peaceful borders.  

Malik often wondered about that world. As much as he loved the village, a part of him yearned to see what lay beyond the hills. His mother, ever the realist, would scold him whenever he voiced such thoughts.  

"You have everything you need here," she would say, placing a steaming bowl of stew before him. "A family, a home, a purpose. The world out there is chaos. Be thankful for what you have."  

And he was thankful. Most days, anyway.  

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---

That morning, Malik worked alongside his younger sister, Lila. At twelve, she was eager to help, though she spent more time talking than working.  

"Do you think we'll have a big harvest this year?" Lila asked, her wide brown eyes full of hope.  

"If the weather stays kind, yes," Malik replied, planting another row of seeds. "But remember, it's not just about luck. Hard work makes the difference."  

"Hard work and Malik’s endless lectures," Lila teased, sticking out her tongue.  

He laughed, tossing a handful of loose dirt her way. "Careful, or I'll put you in charge of the entire field."  

Their banter was interrupted by the tolling of the village bell. It rang out clear and sharp, calling everyone to the square.  

"Come on," Malik said, brushing the dirt from his hands. "Let's see what the fuss is about."  

The villagers were gathered around Ina, the village elder, who stood atop the stone steps of the meeting hall. Despite her frailty, her voice carried authority.  

"My friends," she began, "the traders have brought news from the southern cities. The harvests there have failed, and the people are struggling. They may seek our help in the coming weeks."  

A murmur spread through the crowd. Malik glanced at his father, who stood with arms crossed, a concerned frown on his face.  

"How much can we spare?" someone asked.  

"As much as we can without risking our own survival," Ina replied. "But let us not forget the bonds of humanity. When others suffer, we must extend our hands, not close them into fists."  

---

That evening, Malik sat on the hill overlooking the village, watching the sunset paint the sky in hues of orange and gold. Lila sat beside him, her legs swinging over the edge of the rock they perched on.  

"Do you ever think about leaving, Malik?" she asked suddenly.  

He turned to her, surprised by the question. "Leaving?"  

"Yeah. Like the traders. They see so much of the world. Aren’t you curious about what’s out there?"  

Malik smiled faintly, gazing at the horizon. "Sometimes. But this is home, Lila. It’s where we belong."  

"Maybe," she said, resting her chin on her knees. "But sometimes I think there’s more. More than fields and planting and harvesting."  

Before Malik could answer, a strange sound filled the air—a low, distant hum that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. It was faint, almost imperceptible, but unmistakably out of place.  

Lila sat up straight, her eyes wide. "What was that?"  

"I… don’t know," Malik said, his voice barely a whisper.  

The sound grew louder, a vibration that seemed to come from the earth itself. Malik stood, his heart pounding as he scanned the horizon.  

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the sound stopped. The valley was silent, the peace restored, but Malik’s unease lingered.  

"Lila," he said, his voice firm. "Go home. Now."  

---

The fields and the village seemed untouched, the same as they had always been, but Malik couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed.  

Later that night, as he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the hum echoed in his mind. It wasn’t just a sound—it was a warning.  

Something was coming.