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Elara didn’t order them to stop. Instead, she listened. An old woman whispered, “We’re not angry about water. We’re scared of being forgotten.”

In a small hamlet, Elara found a well where villagers gathered. But no one was laughing. A drought had dried their second well, and the one remaining was low. Families were arguing over water.

Elara helped him knead the dough and even shaped a few lopsided rolls. By sunset, she was covered in flour, laughing with the baker’s children. She learned that going around meant noticing small burdens—and lifting them.

“Thank you, kind stranger,” said the baker, not recognizing her. “Most folks walk right by.”