He signed it with a single swirl of air.
That night, Aang did not bend the storm away. He sat with the villagers in their damp community hall, eating cold rice and listening to their stories of loss. Katara healed a fisherman’s chronic burns. Sokka drew a crude map of the new trade routes.
Then a little girl—no older than six, with soot on her cheek—ran out from behind a well. She ignored the archers, ignored the commander, and walked straight up to Aang.
The rain began to fall. Cold. Steady. For a long moment, no one moved.