Puleleiite had never known the rains in Matori to be so cold.

The morning air was heavy with dampness, the skies a leaden gray, and even the ocean waves—usually bold and thundering—seemed muted beneath the weight of the strange chill. Rain slapped at the rooftops in steady sheets, and the palm trees drooped, their saturated fronds creaking with weariness. From under her woven blanket, she blinked at the condensation forming on the window and sighed deeply. Something about the weather felt unnatural, and she didn’t like it one bit.

“Are you seriously going out in that?” Kahea, her eldest niece, asked, half-buried in a pile of scarves and sipping from a steaming bowl of fruit and rice. Her voice had that mix of amusement and judgment only older nieces could master.

Puleleiite shrugged into her rain wrap and sandals anyway. “I have to,” she replied, tugging her hood over her wild, dark curls. “Papa wants his favorite stew tonight, and we’re out of oceanleaf and rootburrow.”

Kahea snorted. “Papa won’t know the difference if you skip the oceanleaf.”

“I would know,” Puleleiite shot back with a scowl. “And that’s worse.”

The moment she stepped outside, the wind assaulted her like a mischievous spirit. Her hood flew back, rainwater immediately sliding down the back of her neck. She yelped, slapped at the wet spot, and stumbled through the mud-streaked path toward the market. The sand, usually soft and warm underfoot, had turned to a cold, gritty sludge. Her sandals squelched with every step, betraying her almost immediately—so she kicked them off and trudged barefoot, determined and shivering.

No children played along the beach that day. No laughter or games echoed across the dunes. The storm had chased everyone inside, except for the few stubborn elders who braved the weather to keep the local shore market open. Colorful cloth tarps sagged under the weight of water, and smoke curled from cook pots attempting to warm both food and fingers.

At the edge of the market, Uncle Mau hunched over his stall, wrapped in a rain-spotted straw cloak. Though not related by blood, he was family all the same—one of the community’s mainstays and the supplier of the best local greens and herbs.

“Puleleiite,” he called as she approached, peering at her through the mist. “You’re either very brave or very foolish.”

“Maybe both,” she replied, wringing water from her sleeves. “I’m on stew duty. Papa Ikaika’s craving the usual.”

He chuckled, reaching for a bundle of fresh oceanleaf. “That man still insists on the proper bitterness, eh?”

She nodded. “He says it balances the flavor. He’s not wrong.”

Uncle Mau handed her the greens and, with a wink, tossed in a few sprigs of firemint. “That’ll warm you right up. Just a pinch, though. Burns if you’re not careful.”

Puleleiite tucked the herbs into her satchel gratefully. “Thanks, Uncle. Say... have you heard? The mountains in Zena are covered in snow. Even Oba’s cold now.”

He frowned thoughtfully, adjusting his straw hat. “I heard. Strange days we’re living in. The desert shivers, and the trees in Kahikina bloom late. Feels like the world’s turning upside down.”

A shiver not entirely from the cold ran down her spine. The world was changing. Even Matori, with its predictable tides and golden warmth, wasn’t immune.

The walk back home felt longer, the rain more spiteful. By the time Puleleiite pushed through the door of their seaside home, she was soaked, chilled, and breathless. Her siblings erupted in laughter at the sight of her, and Papa Kaiko rushed over with a thick towel, scolding her gently while drying her hair. Papa Ikaika peeked from the cooking area, eyes lighting up when he spotted the oceanleaf bundle.

“That’s my girl,” he said proudly.

Puleleiite grinned through chattering teeth and immediately set to work. She peeled rootburrow with fast fingers, her movements confident and practiced. Shellstock simmered in the broth as she stirred in the oceanleaf with care, letting the bitterness seep in just before the firemint’s spicy edge joined the mix. The room soon filled with an aroma so inviting it lured everyone to gather near the hearth.

They sat wrapped in blankets, bowls steaming in their hands, cheeks pink from the warmth. Papa Ikaika sighed happily after his first spoonful, murmuring about the perfect balance of flavor. Kahea begrudgingly admitted the oceanleaf made a difference. Even the younger siblings settled into satisfied silence, cheeks stuffed and content.

Outside, the wind howled. The rain lashed the windows. But inside, the storm seemed a distant memory. There was laughter, warmth, and the glow of shared comfort.

Puleleiite curled her toes beneath the blankets and let her gaze drift to the darkened windowpane. The cold had surprised her, challenged her, but she had faced it. She had brought back what mattered and turned it into something that brought joy.

She might not yet be grown, might not wield blades or command storms like the heroes in the stories—but she could take care of her own. She could brave the world outside and return with something worth sharing.

Let the world shift and winds howl. Puleleiite had stew to make, people to love, and a voice that would always, always be heard.