The cemetery had never felt this loud.

  Voices rang out in the still air, desperate calls carried by the wind.

  “Ate! Ate!”

  “Given! Given! Nasaan ka na!?”

  Dante’s voice burned in his throat, hoarse from shouting, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. His legs ached with every step as he pushed himself forward, searching every corner, every overgrown path between gravestones. Sweat clung to his back, his breath ragged, but he forced himself to move faster. He has been doing this for a straight one hour. Jun and the kids weren’t far, their voices joining his, raw and frantic.

  Dante knew it…

  Something was wrong.

  His breath caught as he stumbled to a stop, his knees threatening to buckle beneath him. His body wasn’t what it used to be, his heart pounded too fast, his legs felt heavier than before. It had been too long since he last ran like this, since he last felt this kind of fear.

  His fingers clenched around the small sandal still in his grip, the last trace of her. It was still warm when he picked it up. Now, it felt like a relic. His stomach twisted.

  “This is my fault.” He grit his teeth, shaking off the thought, but the cold reality pressed down on him like a weight he couldn’t lift. He had let her out of his sight. He had let his guard down. He had been so busy reliving the past, sitting in front of that damn grave, that he hadn’t seen it happening.

  The realization sat heavy in his gut, a sick certainty. Someone must took her... Given wouldn’t run off. If she was still here, they would have found her by now. Someone had taken his granddaughter. Dante swallowed, shaking the thoughts away. Not now.

  Jun was staring at him now, breathless, his face pale with worry. Behind him, Joyce and Bryan clung to each other, their small hands gripping tightly, their eyes wide with confusion and fear.

  Dante turned away, forcing his voice to stay calm. “Anak, let’s go home.”

  Jun jerked his head toward him. “But what about Given?” His voice was tight, breaking slightly at the edges.

  Dante didn’t answer right away. Instead, he let his gaze drop to the sandal in his hands, fingers tightening around it. His chest rose and fell with slow, measured breaths.

  “She’s not here anymore.”

  Jun stiffened.

  “If she was,” Dante continued, his voice quieter now, harder, “we would have found her already.” He added while still breathing heavily. Silence fell between them. Dante exhaled. His hands were trembling, but his eyes—his eyes had turned sharp, focused.

  They went home. He turned to Jun, he gave him a firm nod and handed over the key. “Lock the gate,” he said, his voice low, steady, but carrying the weight of everything he refused to say aloud. “watch over Joyce and Bryan, and call Sarah, tell her what happened.” Jun nodded without question, sensing that this wasn’t just a request—it was an order.

  Dante turned away, moving with urgency toward the small garage beside the house. The space smelled of oil and metal, a scent that had long since settled into the walls. With a sharp pull, he yanked back the old tarp covering his bike, a black and dark green bobber, sleek and powerful, untouched for quite a long time.

  He swung a leg over, settling into the seat, hands gripping the handlebars as muscle memory took over. With a twist of the throttle, the engine roared to life beneath him, the deep rumble vibrating through his chest. It had been years since he last rode it, but today, hesitation had no place.

  Dante kicked the stand up and pulled out of the garage, his bike cutting through the morning like a shadow. The streets blurred past him, houses turning into streaks of dim light and darkness. He leaned forward, wind pressing against his face, his mind racing faster than the machine beneath him. He didn’t stop until he reached the precinct.

  Parking near the entrance, he killed the engine and stepped off in one swift motion, his boots hitting the pavement hard. Without a second of hesitation, he pushed open the door and strode inside.

  At the front desk, a young officer looked up, his expression shifting the moment he saw Dante. The old man’s face was tight, his movements rigid with urgency. This was not the Dante Mallari he was used to seeing.

  “Mang Dan,” the officer hesitated, eyes scanning his tense posture. He had never seen the old man look like this. Anxious. Worried.

  Dante’s voice was clipped, direct. “Where’s Julius?”

  The officer straightened. “Ah—Chief’s in his office. You can go ahead if you need him.”

  “Thanks.” Dante was already moving before the word even left his lips, his strides quick and unwavering. He didn’t knock. He didn’t have time.

  The precinct is not that big since the municipality of San Miguel isn’t that large too. Every police their noticed how anxious and worried Dante looked. Almost all of them are also concerned for the old man. Since he started to live in their town, Dante is nothing but a kind and generous man.

  Dante arrived at the door of the Chief’s office. He knocked but doesn’t waited for someone to say “Come in.”

  Dante twisted the knob and pushed the door open without hesitation. The hinges creaked, but Julius barely looked up from the stack of documents on his desk. Pen in hand, he smirked, shaking his head.

  “You know, most people will wait for th—” He stopped mid-sentence.

  Dante stood in the doorway, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. His face hardened by years of discipline and experience was different tonight. The usual steadiness in his eyes, the quiet strength he always carried, was gone.

  Julius had never seen him like this. The old man wasn’t just hurried. He wasn’t just tense. He looked fragile. The Police Chief felt something cold settle in his gut. He put his pen down. “Something wrong?” His voice dropped slightly, sharper now, controlled.

  Dante’s mouth opened, but for a second, no sound came out. His throat worked around the words before he finally managed to choke them out.

  “M-my granddaughter.” His voice cracked, something Julius never thought he’d hear. “Someone took her.” The weight of the words hit the room like a hammer.

  Julius straightened in his seat. “Wait. Your granddaughter?” He blinked, his mind racing. “Who? Joyce or Given?”

  Dante swallowed hard, his eyes locking onto Julius’s. “Given.” The single name sent a chill through the room.

  Julius had known Dante for years, he had seen this man walk through gunfire, stand unshaken in the face of death, handle grief with nothing but clenched fists and silent resolve.

  But tonight, he was looking at a man who was barely holding himself together.

  “I need help,” Dante said, his voice raw, almost unrecognizable. “Please find her.”

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  Julius heard it then, the plea buried underneath. The desperation thickening his voice, the way his hands curled into shaking fists at his sides, the way he looked like a man drowning, reaching for anything that could pull him back to the surface.

  Julius had never seen Dante beg for anything. Not once. It is actually the other way around. He pushed back his chair and stood, crossing the room without hesitation. His hand landed firm on Dante’s shoulder, gripping it tightly.

  “I’ll mobilize my men,” he said, voice firm, unshaken. “I’ll find her. I swear it.”

  Dante gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, but Julius could see it… the fear, the unspoken dread clawing at him. And for the first time, Julius felt it too.

  Julius watched as Dante turned and walked out of his office, his steps heavy, shoulders tense, like a man carrying the weight of the world on his back. The precinct’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a harsh glow on the hollow expression that lingered on the old man’s face. As the door swung shut behind him, Julius exhaled, rubbing his temples. This wasn’t just another missing person case—this was Dante Mallari, he looked more broken than Julius had ever thought possible. And somehow, that was what unsettled him the most. That if something happens to Given, the demons that the old man has long buried might return.

  The drive back home was a blur, the sound of his motorcycle blending into the chaos in his mind. By the time he reached the house, before he could even take a steadying breath, the front door burst open— and Sarah stormed out like a whirlwind, her face twisted with rage and grief, her voice shaking.

  “PUTANG INA NAMAN, TAY?!” she screamed, her whole body trembling. “HOW COULD YOU LOSE GIVEN!?”

  The words cut through Dante like a blade, but he said nothing. What could he say? Gerald, her husband, was behind her in an instant, wrapping his arms around her from behind, holding her as if his touch alone could keep her from breaking apart.

  “Honey, calm down,” Gerald murmured softly. “Tatay didn’t want this to happen. No one wanted this to happen.”

  Sarah let out a sharp, pain-filled laugh. It wasn’t amusement, it was despair, frustration, the unbearable agony of a mother whose child was missing. The drive from Quezon City to San Leonardo in San Miguel had been frantic, every second dragging on like eternity, every mile feeling like a mile too long. The moment Jun called, Sarah didn’t even think—she just grabbed her keys and drove like her life depended on it… and maybe it did.

  Unlike Art, Sarah’s relationship with Dante had always been rough, like walking barefoot on jagged glass. He was a father, but not in the way she needed him to be. Not in the way that mattered. She only stayed connected to him for one reason… her mother. Because Cornellia would have wanted that.

  But now? Now all she could feel was anger, heartbreak, and the growing terror of what she might lose. Tears burned at her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She clenched her fists so tightly that her nails dug into her skin. She wouldn’t break. Not yet. They all went inside.

  From the rooms, small eyes peeked through the slightly open door. Joyce and Bryan had been listening. Watching. Feeling the fear even if no one wanted them to. Gerald noticed them first. He turned, forcing a smile despite the tension choking the air. He walked over, moving slowly, and placed a hand on the door.

  Joyce hesitated before whispering, “Daddy… will Ate be alright?”

  Gerald knelt down, his sharp cheekbones accentuating the strong, masculine lines of his face. His voice was soft, steady, a father who needed to be a rock, even when he, too, was breaking.

  “Yes, honey,” he said, brushing a stray hair from her face. “Ate will be fine.”

  He closed the door gently, shielding them from the storm outside. Sarah’s breath came out shaky, her body still trembling as she turned back to Dante. Her eyes, red-rimmed and filled with fire, locked onto him like daggers.

  “I swear to God…” Her voice was low, breaking, but every word dripped with warning, with anger, with something close to hatred. “If something bad happens to Given— if something happens to my daughter… I swear you will never see me or Joyce again.”

  The threat landed like a gunshot. Dante flinched, something deep inside him cracking apart. His knees felt weak as he sank onto the sofa. His body, old and weary, suddenly felt even heavier. Gerald, still calm despite the storm, hurried to grab a glass of water. He held it out to Dante, voice filled with quiet reassurance. “Tay, here. Don’t worry. I won’t let it happen.”

  Dante took the glass, his fingers curling around it tightly, but he didn’t drink. He stared at the floor, shoulders slumped.

  “Thanks,” he murmured, his voice hollow. “But…” He exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around the rim of the glass.

  “Sarah’s right.” The admission hung in the air, thick and suffocating.

  “It’s my fault that Given’s missing.”

  His other hand curled into a fist, nails pressing against his palm as he fought the burning behind his eyes. He would not cry. Not here. Not now. Sarah saw it, the way his fingers trembled. This is the first time she saw her father… fragile and close to breaking. Dante didn’t acted like this when Cornellia died. And it hurt. It hurt Sarah in a way she wasn’t prepared for. Because this sight… this version of him made something inside her twist painfully. It brought anger. It brought grief. It brought memories she had tried so hard to push away. And worst of all—it brought guilt.

  Before she could say anything, the front door creaked open, and Jun stepped in. His clothes were damp with sweat, his face exhausted from hours of searching. His eyes widened slightly when he saw Sarah. “Oh, Ate… you’re here already.”

  Sarah turned to him so fast that it almost made her dizzy. “Jun, is there any news?” Her voice betrayed her, cracking at the end despite her efforts to stay strong. Jun looked at the floor.

  “Sorry, Ate,” he muttered. “We still haven’t found Given. No clues. No leads. Nothing.”

  Sarah’s stomach dropped. Each second that passed, each moment without Given, it was another moment closer to something unspeakable. Jun sighed, running a hand through his damp hair. “I’ll change my clothes and head back out. The neighbors and police are still searching.”

  He turned toward into his room. And in the silence that followed, the house felt unbearably small. Dante sat there, staring at nothing. His hands trembled slightly, but he said nothing. Sarah clenched her fist and turned away, unable to look at him any longer. Because if she did, she might break too.

  “I’ll head back now.” Jun said.

  “Thank you, bro,” Gerald said, his voice firm yet grateful. “I'll join your party too.”

  Jun nodded, but before he could respond, Sarah stepped forward. “Me too,” she said, her voice unwavering. Gerald turned to her immediately. “No. You should stay here with the kids.”

  Sarah's face contorted in disbelief. “What!?” she snapped, fury rising in her voice. “Given’s my daughter!”

  “And she’s my daughter too!” Gerald fired back, his voice sharper, stronger, filled with unshakable authority.

  Sarah flinched, her breathing ragged, but before she could argue, Gerald softened. He reached for her hand, his grip steady, warm.

  “Honey, please,” he said, lowering his voice. “Let me, Jun, and Tatay handle this. Joyce needs you here too.”

  Sarah opened her mouth, but the words didn’t come. Her body trembled, fists clenched at her sides, her heart warring against the truth she didn’t want to accept. Slowly, her strength gave way, and she sank onto the sofa, her head shaking in silent devastation.

  "But… but... my baby..." Her voice cracked as her arms wrapped around herself, as if holding herself together was the only thing keeping her from shattering completely.

  Her sobs came softly at first, then broke into something deeper, rawer. "My Giveeeennnn…"

  Dante’s chest tightened, constricting with an unbearable weight. It wasn’t her words that gutted him. It was the sound. That sound—a mother’s cry, his little girl’s cry.

  He had heard it before. Years ago. He had heard it when Sarah lost her mother. She had cried just like this, her small body racked with sobs, her voice torn apart by grief. And he—he had stood there, helpless, unable to give her the comfort she needed. She had been just a girl, and he had failed her then… and now, he was failing her again.

  His breathing hitched, and deep inside his mind, something shifted. A voice. One he had long buried.

  “This is the only thing you’re good at.”

  Dante stiffened, his hands clenching into fists.

  “You’re only good at destroying things. You’re a destroyer, death follows you like a goddamn shadow.”

  His jaw tightened as he pressed his hands against his face, trying to silence it, trying to shove the voice back into the dark corner where it belonged. But it was too late. The past had seeped through the cracks, whispering, mocking.

  Sarah was still crying, pleading now.

  “Please bring her back...” she begged, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Gerald knelt beside her, his broad arms wrapping around her trembling frame. He pulled her close, shielding her from the weight of her own pain.

  “I will, honey,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her damp cheek before gently leading her toward the room where Bryan and Joyce waited. He opened the door, guiding her inside, then closed it softly behind her, letting the room swallow her grief. Gerald turned back to Dante, his eyes scanning the older man’s face.

  “Tay, you should rest for a while too. You look beat.”

  Dante exhaled, rubbing his temples. “No,” he muttered. “It’s my fault…” His hands tightened at his sides as he pushed himself up from the couch, his body feeling heavier than ever. “I need to be out there. I need to be searching for Given.”

  Gerald sighed, shaking his head. “Tay, it’s not your fault.”

  Dante stilled.

  Those words…

  He hated those words.

  He bowed his head, teeth gritting so hard his jaw ached.

  “It’s – not – your – fault.”

  People had said that to him before. So many times. He had heard it whispered after Cornellia’s death. He had heard it at the funeral. He had heard it when he was drowning in guilt, choking on regret. And every time—every single time—it never felt like an absolution.

  It felt like a lie.

  A pretty way of saying, "I blame you, but we have to move on." He swallowed hard, his nails digging into his palms.

  If he stopped now, if he sat here doing nothing, he would prove the voice in his head right. He couldn’t let that happen. Not again.