Instead, she thought of the roof. The school books. The look on Kiko’s face when she told him they had enough.

Ligaya held him until his trembling stopped. She told herself it was nothing. Just a child’s imagination, fed on too many stories and too little sleep. But when she closed her own eyes, she saw them: the orange-fleshed tahong , pulsing gently in the dark, their shells opening and closing like mouths forming a single, patient word.

It was small at first. A fisherman who never forgot a face suddenly couldn’t recognize his own wife. A girl who loved to sing opened her mouth one morning and produced only a low, wet clicking. Old Celso was found standing in the shallows at midnight, staring down at his own reflection, whispering to it in a language no one understood.

“No, anak. You were dreaming.”

Ligaya laughed, the sound rusty but real. “Put it in the boat. That one buys your school books.”