The rice fields beyond the barangay hum with
cicadas as Lina returns from the city, her
suitcase heavy with books and a letter sealed in
wax. Her father’s new wife, Tita Maruja, watches
from the porch, fingers tracing the edge of a
fan. The house smells of cloves and old wood, a
relic of the colonial era still standing after
the war.
Lina’s brother, Juan, slams the door behind her.
He has not spoken since their mother’s funeral,
but his eyes hold the weight of a secret. Tita
Maruja calls him “boy” and licks her lips when
he leaves the room.
At night, Lina finds a key under the floorboard
of her childhood room. It opens a locked drawer
beneath the floor, revealing a stack of letters
tied with red ribbon. They are addressed to her
mother, signed by a man with a military rank.
The dates span five years, ending two months
before the fire that killed her mother.
The barangay council meets at dawn. A new rule
is announced: no outsider may stay past sunset.
Lina’s father nods, eyes downcast. Tita Maruja
claps her hands, smiling as if she has won a bet.
Lina visits the town square, where a vendor
sells roasted chicken and tamarind candy. She
buys a mango, then freezes as a familiar voice
calls her name. It is Daniel, the son of the
mayor, his uniform crisp and stiff. He says
nothing, only holds out a hand. She touches it,
and the crowd parts like water.
That night, Lina’s window shatters. A stone hits
her bed, leaving a crack in the glass. Tita
Maruja stands in the doorway, holding a lantern.
“You don’t belong here,” she says, voice soft as
ash. Lina does not answer.
The next morning, Lina is summoned to the
barangay hall. The council sits in a circle,
their faces lit by flickering kerosene lamps.
Tita Maruja speaks first, her words sharp as
broken glass. “This girl has brought shame to
the family.” A man nods, his face hidden in
shadow. Lina’s father looks at the floor.
Daniel appears at the door, his uniform torn at
the sleeve. He says nothing, only offers his
hand again. Lina takes it, and the room falls
silent. The council leans forward, waiting.
She steps into the sunlight, the crowd parting.
Tita Maruja’s smile cracks. Lina walks away, her
suitcase heavy with books and a letter sealed in
wax. The rice fields hum, and the cicadas sing
louder than before.
