Sarah's eyes fluttered open, the dull ache in her skull throbbing in sync with her pulse. Her thoughts felt scattered, loose threads unraveling in the darkness of her mind. Her body was heavy, sluggish, like she had been drugged, or like she was waking from a dream too deep to escape from. She expected fluorescent hospital lights, the sharp scent of antiseptic, the muffled voices of nurses moving outside a door.

  But she was not in a hospital.

  The air was thick, stale, like an abandoned place but still breathing. The ceiling above her was cracked, the paint peeling in long, curling strips, exposing something dark beneath. A ceiling fan hung motionless, a thick layer of dust clinging to its blades. A turntable sat on a small shelf just above her, next to an old box-type television.

  “Wait…” she muttered.

  This isn’t right.

  Sarah sat up slowly, pressing her fingers to her temple as if that could silence the ringing in her ears. It didn’t. Her body resisted the movement, her joints felt stiff, while her skin cold like she’d been lying still for too long. A deep unease settled into her bones as she looked around, blinking hard, waiting for her mind to make sense of what she was seeing.

  The furniture… it was familiar. The three-seater sofa, the wooden shelf lined with cassette tapes, the faded green curtains. She had seen this before.

  But everything was wrong.

  The colors felt muted, washed out as if the room had been drained of its warmth. The edges of the furniture seemed too still, sharp, like a painting frozen in time. The air smelled faintly of dust and something bitter, something musty, old… like dead flowers. She turned her head, and there on a small table near the television sat a vase with three withered tulips, their petals curled inward, as if recoiling from something horrifying.

  Her heart twisted. She knew those flowers. She turned to the wall, her breath catching as she saw a family photo hanging just above the turntable. It was an old photo, black and white, and it was damaged. The image was faded, distorted. The faces blurred beyond recognition, like a memory that had been intentionally erased.

  A slow dread crept up her spine. She had been here before. But how? Her breath grew uneven. She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her fingers against her forehead. Think. Remember. The last thing she recalled was Gerald bringing her to the hospital. She had been in pain, her head splitting, the nausea unbearable. But now she was here.

  How?

  The ringing in her ears faded, but in its place came something else. The sound of a child crying. Soft, broken. Sarah’s eyes snapped open. Somewhere in the room, someone was weeping. She turned her head slowly, her skin prickling as she followed the sound. At the far end of the room, standing in front of a brown coffin, was a little girl.

  The girl’s back was turned, her small shoulders shaking with every sob. Her hair was long, dark, and unkempt, strands sticking to the damp skin of her neck. In front of the little girl lies a coffin it was old, its wood darkened with age, the varnish peeling away in places. The lid was closed.

  Sarah’s heart hammers against her ribs. Something about this was all wrong. The air around the girl felt heavier, thicker, like the very space she occupied was warped. Sarah swallowed hard. Her body screamed at her to stay still. To not go any closer. But her feet moved anyway.

  One step.

  Then another.

  The floorboards beneath her groaned, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence. The little girl’s sobs did not stop. Sarah's breathing turned shallow. She was close now. Close enough to touch the girl if she reached out. Close enough to see that her small hands were curled into fists. Close enough to hear her whisper something through her cries… words so soft they barely escaped her lips.

  Sarah’s body went rigid.

  She knew those words.

  She had heard them before. At a funeral, a long time ago. She swallowed. Her throat was dry, her skin cold.

  "Nanay..."

  The girl’s voice wasn’t new. It wasn’t just familiar, it was woven into Sarah’s very being, stitched into her past like an old scar that never quite faded. Sarah stood frozen behind the girl. The child trembled in front of the coffin, her tiny shoulders rising and falling with each ragged sob. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her dress, gripping so tight her knuckles paled.

  Sarah took a slow, hesitant step forward, her pulse hammering against her ribs. The girl’s face came into view, illuminated by the dim glow of the funeral candles.

  Long, dark eyelashes. Red, pouty lips. A mole just beneath her left eye. Sarah’s stomach lurched. This wasn’t just some child. No. She stumbled back, her breath hitching, her body rejecting the impossible truth in front of her.

  “I-It’s impossible..." The words barely escaped her lips.

  The young girl turned, her teary, grief-stricken gaze locking onto Sarah’s, as if she had been waiting for her to understand. Then Sarah looked at the coffin. Her body went ice-cold. There, inside the open casket, was her mother. And beside her, the lifeless body of Given.

  Sarah choked on a scream that never made it out. The child grabbed her arm, her grip like iron, too strong for such a small frame.

  “You shouldn’t have let her go with Tatay…” the girl whispered, her voice trembling but filled with something else, something dark, accusing. The girl repeated it three more times, each with increasing intensity.

  “You shouldn’t have let her go with Tatay!!!”

  Sarah couldn’t breathe. The girl’s hold tightened.

  "You knew, didn’t you!?" Her voice cracked, but her nails dug deeper. "It’s not just Tatay who killed Given. It’s also your fault too!?"

  The air shifted. The funeral candles flickered, casting long, twisting shadows across the walls, their flames turning an unnatural blue. Sarah tried to move, to pull away, but the child wouldn’t let go.

  "You killed my daughter!" she screamed, her small hands gripping Sarah’s wrist like a vice, cold and unrelenting.

  Sarah struggled, but it was as if the child’s fingers had melted into her skin, as if she was being consumed, pulled into something far worse than a dream.

  "YOU KILLED GIVEN!!!"

  The walls of the room darkened, warped, pulsed like living flesh.

  "JUST LIKE HOW YOU KILLED NANAY!"

  The girl’s screams filled the space, bouncing off the walls, twisting in Sarah’s ears, seeping into her very core. Something in Sarah snapped. A flood of old memories rushed in, violent, forceful, unavoidable.

  The cold rain on her skin.

  The headlights from the car.

  The sound of tires screeching against wet pavement. Her mother’s voice, the last thing she had ever said to her. If she had just listened. If she hadn’t gone out that night. If she had just stayed. Her breath hitched, her knees turned jelly. She collapsed to the floor, her fingers clawing at her own arms, as if she could dig out the guilt rotting inside her.

  The young girl cackled. It was an ugly, broken sound.

  "Tears?" she sneered. "That’s right. Be swallowed by it." Sarah gasped, covering her ears, shaking her head, trying to drown out the voice.

  "You killed them!"

  "You’re just like Tatay! Everything you touches BREAK!”

  The walls bled while the coffin rattled. The shadows twisted into grotesque shapes, stretching toward her, reaching. Sarah shook, rocked herself back and forth, trying to push the voices away.

  "This isn’t real," she whispered. "This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t—"

  "Mommy..."

  Sarah’s head snapped up. The room was black now. The coffin was gone, Sarah looked around but seen nothing. Until something… or someone… there was someone standing in the darkness.

  A figure.

  Small.

  Still.

  Then, a step. Sarah’s throat clenched, preparing for what’s to come next. She heard another step. Sarah tried to move, but her body wouldn’t obey. The figure emerged from the blackness. It was Given, Sarah barely recognized her. Her dress was drenched in blood, the fabric clinging to her slender frame. Her arms hung limply at her sides. She lifted her head, her face a ruined mask of horror.

  Her eyes… or where they should have been, were nothing but empty, gaping sockets. Dark, thick blood seeped from the holes, crawling down her cheeks like tears. Sarah opened her mouth to scream. Given smiled.

  "N—NO! PLEASE!"

  The blackness swallowed her whole. Sarah’s eyes snapped open. She gasped for air, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her brain pounding inside her skull. Her body was shaking, drenched in sweat, her hands gripping the hospital sheets so tight her nails nearly pierced through. Someone touched her shoulder, and she flinched, half-expecting to see the child again, half-expecting to see the eyeless corpse of her daughter.

  But it was Gerald, his warm hands grabbing her shoulders.

  "Sarah," he said gently, rubbing her back. "You were talking in your sleep."

  Her breath still hitched, her fingers digging into the mattress as she frantically scanned the room. She’s surrounded with white walls; her wrist has IV drip. She swallowed hard, her throat dry, her voice cracking as she finally spoke.

  "Where… where are we?"

  Gerald frowned, concern etched into his face. "The hospital. You passed out, honey.”

  Sarah blinked. Her hands were still trembling. She lifted them slowly, staring at her palms. She could still feel the girl’s grip. She pressed her shaking hands against her face, her breath uneven.

  “You’re having a nightmare…” Gerald said.

  A nightmare. That’s what he had called it, but it was too real for Sarah. The scent of blood still clung to her nose. And in the farthest corner of her mind, the child’s voice still lingered.

  "You killed them."

  Sarah pressed her palm against her face, her body wracked with sobs. "My Given..." Her voice broke as the name left her lips, shattering, painful. Gerald stood beside her, his fists clenched so tightly. For years, he had learned to endure, to suppress, to hide his weakness behind clenched teeth and a fighter’s mask. Three years in the ring had taught him how to take a hit, how to stand back up, how to pretend the pain wasn’t there.

  But this… this was different.

  There was no referee, no bell to signal the end of the fight. There was only the unbearable emptiness where his daughter should have been. He exhaled sharply, shoulders trembling as he lowered himself beside Sarah. His arms wrapped around her, holding her as if she might disappear too if he let go. His walls cracked, and before he could stop himself, the tears came. For the first time in years, Gerald let himself break. He let the dam of his eyes break loose. He buried his face on Sarah’s shoulder as he started to weep like a little child.

  The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Sarah embraced Gerald, and together they wept together, their sobs filling the sterile hospital room, two shattered souls trying to find solace in each other’s grief. Going Home Without Her

  Later that night, Sarah was discharged. The drive back to San Leonardo felt endless. The road stretched ahead, dark and quiet, the world outside moving on as if nothing had happened. As if a family hadn’t just been torn apart. Sarah stared out the window, arms wrapped around herself, trying to fill the void where Given’s warmth used to be. Gerald kept his eyes on the road, gripping the steering wheel so hard his fingers ached.

  Neither of them spoke, there were no words to soften the truth. By the time they arrived home, the scent of simmering broth filled the air. In the kitchen, Jun stood over the stove, stirring a pot of sinigang. The familiar aroma should have been comforting, should have felt like home. But home wasn’t home if you know one of your children will never come home.

  Jun turned when he heard them enter. His eyes were red, swollen, proof that he had been grieving in silence.

  "Ate, kuya... I'm glad you're both okay." His voice cracked on the last word.

  Sarah forced a weak smile. "Thanks for taking care of the kids, Jun."

  Jun nodded, his throat bobbing as he swallowed back another wave of tears. He wanted to say more. But how do you comfort someone when the worst has already happened? Then, a small voice broke the silence.

  "Mommy!!"

  Sarah barely had time to react before Joyce ran straight into her arms, holding on with all the strength her tiny body could muster. The moment Sarah held her, she felt her little girl’s body shaking.

  "Did you find Ate?"

  Sarah’s breath paused, Gerald stiffened beside her. Jun lowered his gaze, gripping the edge of the countertop so tightly his knuckles turned white. For a moment, no one said anything. Then, Gerald knelt to Joyce’s level, forcing himself to meet her hopeful, teary eyes. His voice came out strained, heavy with hesitation.

  “We—we still haven’t found Ate...”

  Joyce's small face fell.

  "But we will soon baby," he added quickly, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Then Silence. Joyce’s eyes started to tear up.

  "I MISS ATEEEE!!"

  Joyce collapsed into Sarah’s arms, sobbing so hard her tiny body shook. Sarah hugged her tightly, rocking her gently. “It’s okay, baby… It’s okay…” But she knew it wasn’t okay. Nothing about this was okay.

  Gerald knelt and pulled both Joyce and Sarah into his arms, holding them as if he could shield them from the cruelty of the world. Meanwhile, Bryan stood a few steps away, watching. His small fists clenched at his sides, his lips pressed into a thin line. He wasn’t crying, his eyes looked lost.

  For the next minutes, Joyce’s sobs eventually faded into sniffles. Bryan never spoke, only letting himself be carried inside as Gerald tucked them into bed. Sarah stayed beside them, stroking Joyce’s hair, listening to her soft, hiccuping breaths as exhaustion finally claimed her.

  Back in the kitchen, Jun had set two plates of rice and a steaming bowl of sinigang on the table. “Ate, here... you should eat,” he said softly, sliding the bowl toward Sarah.

  She had no appetite. The mere thought of food made her stomach turn. But she knew Jun had cooked this for her, out of love, out of worry.

  “I know you haven’t eaten much,” he added.

  Sarah stared at the soup, the steam rising into the air, blurring her vision. She swallowed and nodded. “Thanks, Jun.”

  Her eyes drifted across the room, scanning for something, for someone. She looked up.

  “Where’s Tatay?”

  Jun hesitated, glancing at the clock. "Tatay's still at the morgue," he said, voice quiet. "He hasn’t been home since this he went out with Chief Julius."

  Sarah’s brow furrowed. "What time is it?"

  Jun checked his wristwatch. "It’s one o’clock now. It’s been eight hours since he left."

  For a moment, neither of them spoke. Eight hours and he hadn’t come home. Sarah clutched the spoon in her hand, the warmth of the soup suddenly feeling too far away. She has experienced this before. How her father disappeared after the death of her mother. How he completely abandoned her and Art consoling themselves, the day after their mother died.

  Sarah started sipping the hot soup of the sinigang. “Jun, may ask a question?” She still thinks of Given, and what happened to her. However, she remembered something.

  “Sure ate.”

  “What does Tatay do when it’s just the two of you are here?”

  “Hhhmmm, well Tatay’s always in the flower shop from 8, then when I go home from work at 3 pm, he’s still at the shop. He only comes home on 6 or 7 in the evening.” He answered.

  “Okay, how about his basement? What’s in there?”

  “Basement?”

  “Yes, the one in his garage.”

  “Tatay has no basement ate.” Jun looks confused.

  “Wait, so you didn’t know?”

  “What? That Tatay has basement? Ye – yes.” Jun paused, “Come to think of it, he never asked me to clean the garage.” The two of them starred at each other. They stood up and went outside.

  The air outside was still, too still. Not a single breeze stirred the trees, not even the distant sound of insects humming in the night. Everything felt held in suspense, like the world itself was waiting for something, or warning them to turn back. Sarah’s hands trembled slightly as she rubbed her face, her breath shallow. Her mind was a mess. Given was dead. Murdered. And now, in the aftermath of her loss, her father had secrets buried beneath their very home. She wasn’t sure how much more of this she could take.

  Jun stood by, shifting on his feet. He was nervous too. She could tell by the way his fingers twitched at his sides, how his throat bobbed every few seconds like he was swallowing down questions he was too afraid to ask.

  “Do you think Tatay is hiding something?” he finally asked, his voice lower than usual. Sarah didn’t answer, because she already knew the answer.

  The garage was cold despite the humid afternoon, the air stale as if it had been holding its breath for years. Sarah’s steps felt heavier the closer she got to the wooden platform. It looked so normal, so unassuming. A part of her wanted to believe she was overthinking this, that maybe it was just some forgotten storage space, nothing more.

  But then Jun moved Dante’s bobber aside and pulled up the platform. They both stared. Beneath it, hidden away like a buried sin, was a metal hatch. This wasn’t normal, this wasn’t some harmless storage space.

  Jun took a step back, his face pale. "What the fuck?" His voice was barely above a whisper.

  Sarah knelt, her fingers tracing the padlock on it. It was thick, old, but not rusted.

  “Jun, get a hammer,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

  Jun hesitated before moving to Dante’s toolbox. He pulled out a hammer and turned back to Sarah, holding it out for her. She reached for it, but Jun tightened his grip.

  "I’ll do it," he said. His voice was firm, but Sarah could see the tension in his eyes, the way his breath came slightly faster, yet she didn’t argue. The first hit echoed through the garage like a gunshot. The second one followed, then the third. Each strike sent vibrations up Sarah’s spine, her pulse drumming in her ears.

  By the eighth hit, the padlock snapped with a sickening crack. Neither of them moved at first. Sarah exhaled, her fingers curling around the hatch’s handle. The cold metal bit into her skin, like it didn’t want to be touched. Jun hovered beside her, lighting up his flashlight. The glow barely reached past their feet, swallowed up by the yawning darkness below.

  Sarah pulled the hatch open. The hinges groaned, a long, protesting wail that made the hairs on her arms rise. A gust of cold, stagnant air rushed up from below, carrying with it a scent that did not belong in a family home.

  Jun gagged. “Jesus, that smell… smells like firecrackers…”

  Jun was the first to move, his flashlight trembling slightly in his grip as he aimed it downward. A staircase. Old wooden steps, leading into nothingness. Sarah followed, her fingers brushing against the damp, rough walls as she felt her way down. The deeper they went, the colder it became. Their breathing was too loud. The air pressed against them, thick with something unseen, something watching.

  Jun’s hands skimmed along the wall until they found something… a switch. The lights flickered violently before stabilizing. And what they saw made their stomachs drop.

  A room.

  Cramped, lined with rusted metal shelves. A desk in the corner, cluttered with papers and old photographs. And on the farthest wall… Sarah stops and gazed at it. Her father, he’s not just a soldier.

  Rodriguez Rizal

  12:05 pm, Nov. 01, 2001

  The alley stretched before him, narrow, damp, and alive with the stench of rot. Rain from the night before had settled into uneven puddles, murky reflections of rusted rooftops trembling at the slightest disturbance. The walls on either side were too close, suffocating, the kind of place where sound felt trapped, where screams could die before they reached the street.

  Dante’s white shirt standing in stark contrast to the grime that clung to every surface around him. The alley was cramped, the afternoon light filtering through the gaps in the rusted tin roofs overhead, casting jagged shadows on the damp ground. He didn’t belong here. The farther he went, the more the air seemed to thicken.

  At the crossroads, he turned right. And then… they were there. Three men in their twenties, lounging against a wall graffitied with names of those long dead or soon to be. The first, tall and bulky, pushed himself off the wall, his jaw twitching slightly from whatever substance had him in its grip. The second was broader, built like a laborer but with hands too soft for real work. The last one, younger, jittery, the kind of man who carried a knife he didn’t know how to use. They stepped forward as one but Dante didn’t stop.

  A radio played a muffled tune of “Umaraw umuulan” from a nearby house, its signal weak, warped as though the alley itself had swallowed the melody. The young men sized him up, their eyes flickering to his untouched shirt, his steady hands, the way his expression didn’t change.

  The broad one cracked his knuckles. “Looks like you’re lost, old man.” The jittery one smirked, but his fingers twitched against his side, betraying his nerves. The knife was there, hidden, waiting.

  Dante stopped a few feet away. Then the silence stretched, he tilted his head slightly, just enough to catch the dim afternoon light in his eyes. There was no anger in them neither do fear. Just certainty. Like he had seen this before… like he had already decided how this encounter would end.

  “What are you doing here, old man?” one of the three asked, the biggest among them. The man carried himself with an air of arrogance, clearly the leader of the group. He stood an inch taller than Dante, who was 5’8 himself. His muscular, bulky frame made Dante look almost frail in comparison.

  “I’m here for Elora.”

  At the mention of the name, the other two subtly shifted their positions, moving to flank him, one on his left, the other on his right.

  “And what do you need with her, old man?” the bulky one asked again.

  “I’m an old acquaintance of hers.”

  “Acquaintance?” The man scoffed, tilting his head.

  “Sorry, but she’s not here.”

  Dante took a slow step forward. Immediately, all three of them brandished their knives, their movements sharp, practiced. Dante raised his hands in surrender, his face calm. “Listen, I just want to meet her.”

  “Oh yeah? What are you, a police informant?” the leader sneered.

  “I just need to see her. I need a favor from her.” The man snarled, taking a step closer, flashing his knife.

  “Go away, old man!” he barked, thrusting the blade forward just enough to make his point.

  The alley seemed to close in around them, the walls narrowing, the space thick with tension. The young bulky man’s grip tightened on the knife, his knuckles paling. His breathing had changed, steady, measured, waiting. His eyes flicked to Dante, searching for any sign that the old man would back down, turn away, disappear into the afternoon like a ghost that had wandered too far.

  A part of him wanted that. He didn’t want to do this. Didn’t want to be the guy who knifed an old man in some forgotten alley over nothing.

  But Dante…

  Dante didn’t moved, he didn’t even flinched nor step back. He simply stood there, hands raised in a slow, deliberate motion. Not in fear. Not in surrender. Just calm.

  "Listen, young man," Dante said, his voice even, firm in a way that didn’t need to be loud to be heard.

  "There’s no need for violence."

  The younger man swallowed, his throat bobbing as he clenched his jaw.

  "Yes! That is why you need to go away!" he snapped, raising his knife slightly, the blade catching the sliver of afternoon light that spilled through the gaps in the tin roofs. His voice remained unchanged, it remained steady and absolute.

  "Sorry, but that I can’t do."

  The alley felt thicker now, as if the walls themselves had leaned in to watch. Shadows stretched long across the damp pavement, twisting like hungry fingers as the sun dipped lower, its light barely reaching the filth-streaked ground. Dante stepped forward, unhurried.

  The leader, the one built like a battering ram, shook his head, a hint of disappointment flickering behind his eyes. Maybe he had hoped the old man would just turn around.

  "Fuck it, old man. I’m sorry, but I have to do this."

  The knife clattered to the ground as the young man let it go, shifting his stance, fists rising. A boxer. A brawler. He thought he didn’t need a weapon to put an old man down. He was wrong.

  The punch came fast, a brutal right hook aimed for Dante’s jaw, but Dante saw it before it even started. With the ease of a man who had danced with death before, he sidestepped, just enough to let the blow sail past him. At the same time, his forearm snapped up, meeting the young man’s wrist mid-air, redirecting the force.

  The impact sent the younger man stumbling. Balance shattered, momentum thrown against him, his own weight now working against him. The other two hesitated, blinking in shock. The fight should’ve ended there. That punch should’ve flattened an old man. Instead, it was their leader who was struggling to find his footing.

  Dante bent low, snatching the fallen knife in one fluid motion. He didn’t even break stride as he surged forward, his knee slamming into the downed man’s wrist, pinning it to the ground. His free hand clamped down on the other, trapping him completely. The young man thrashed, but Dante was already on him, a weight he couldn't shake off. A thin blade kissed the skin of his throat.

  Everything stilled. Dante leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper.

  "Weird, isn’t it?" His tone was almost amused, as if explaining something mundane, something obvious. "Brute force alone is a liability in the face of speed and experience."

  The younger man tried to twist away. The knife pressed harder but he can’t. Dante’s voice grew colder. "Now. Where is Elora?"

  The two remaining men had already paled, but they still stood their ground. That made Dante sigh. "Seriously?" His grip didn’t loosen. "Guess kids these days don’t value their own lives."

  He barely moved, a slight shift of his wrist. The knife glided smoothly on the man’s throat from left to right. A sharp intake of breath… then silence. Blood poured from the wound before the bulky man could even register that he was already dead. His lips parted, but no words came, only a wet gurgle as he slumped forward, lifeless.

  Dante let the body fall, not even sparing it a glance, then he turned to the other two. "Now, who’s next?"

  The younger one took a shaky step back.

  "I’m in a hurry," Dante continued, voice light, casual, too casual. "So let’s do this fast. I only need one of you to tell me where Elora is."

  Then, he smiled. "I’ll gladly do this nation a favor again by cleaning up some trash."

  The two remaining men did not move. Dante could already see it, the shift in their stance, the way their eyes darted, looking for exits that weren’t there. The other one tries to run but Dante threw the knife on his right ankle causing the man to fall on the ground. The Remaining kid, the youngest fell on the ground and started to pissed his pants as he began to beg.

  “P-please… d-don’t… I don’t wanna die…” he grovel as his companion whimpers and crawl to safety. Snots fills his nose as he grips the hem of Dante’s jeans. Dante knelt down and grabbed the kid’s hair, “Then tell me where she is…”

  “I – I don’t know… please…” the kid sniffs, “Please believe me…”

  “Then you’re no use to me.” Dante slowly let the edge of his knife bit the poor kid.

  “WAIT! WAIT!” Dante hid his smile, “I – I know someone who might.”