Chapter 61: The Heart of Quiet Progress
March crept in without fanfare—no grand announcements, no seismic shifts. Just the steady thrum of harvest trucks along the barangay roads and the hum of ceiling fans echoing in the long afternoons. The sun stayed a little longer each day, and the flowers planted along the edges of the San Jose house began to bloom with vibrant defiance, like little explosions of color against the otherwise dusty path.
Carmela woke earlier than usual. The rooster had only crowed once, and the first of the sunlight was still stretching over the rice paddies behind their house. The kitchen smelled faintly of last night's adobo, and her mother's soft humming came from outside, where she was already tending to the malunggay and eggplants.
She padded barefoot to the sink and splashed cool water on her face. Today was the soft launch of Raziel's project—Barangay Byte.
"Logistics for the barangay, by the barangay," Raziel had called it.
Inspired by pandemic restrictions and the growing need for accessible goods in rural areas, Barangay Byte aimed to create a digital network of local delivery drivers, sari-sari stores, and essential service providers, coordinated through a simple text-based and app-connected interface. The plan was ambitious—but so was Raziel.
He'd worked on the code through late February, often on Carmela's back porch with a cold bottle of Coke beside his laptop and the faint hum of cicadas in the background. Carmela had helped draft the outreach materials, sketching diagrams and interfaces between sips of instant coffee.
That morning, the launch took place at the multi-purpose hall. Carmela's brothers, both supportive in their own ways, were on site—her eldest helping direct the flow of attendees and her other kuya overseeing the sound system and projector setup.
"Kuya, don't forget to check the Bluetooth connection. It kept cutting out during testing," Carmela reminded gently.
"Already on it," he called back, wiping sweat from his forehead. "I updated the drivers."
She smiled. Her brother might not say it out loud, but she could see his pride in the way he worked on the details.
When Raziel arrived, dressed in a crisp but breathable barong-inspired polo and carrying a simple cloth bag of flyers, Carmela's breath caught. She'd seen him countless times—during awkward teenage years, after heartbreaks, and now in this season of purpose—but something about today felt different.
Maybe it was because he was stepping into the light of his own dream.
"Ready?" she asked.
"Nervous," he admitted, then grinned. "But ready."
The presentation drew in more residents than expected. Tricycle drivers, barangay tanods, sari-sari store owners, and even a few curious lolas who wanted to understand how the system could help their tindahan deliveries. The feedback was warm, even enthusiastic.
Carmela watched Raziel speak with clarity and kindness. When someone didn't understand the technology, he explained patiently in Tagalog, sometimes even with simple metaphors that made the whole hall laugh.
"He's got a teacher's heart," Carmela's mother whispered, standing beside her.
"Yes," Carmela whispered back, smiling.
After the event, they returned home tired but satisfied. As they sat on the porch sipping melon juice, Raziel turned to her.
"I couldn't have done this without you."
"You could have," she said. "But I'm glad you didn't have to."
He reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "One day, I want to build something that helps *your* dream too."
"You already are."
---
March passed in a rhythm of small victories.
Carmela's pilot schools for KATALISTA began their student onboarding, and the feedback was promising. Teachers sent voice messages filled with gratitude, especially for the offline-friendly features. A principal from a mountain barangay even called her directly to express his admiration.
"I've never seen the kids this engaged. They want to learn because it feels like the app understands *them,*" he said.
Carmela cried afterward. Quiet tears. The kind that healed.
Jean wrote about her new advertising campaign for a local organic farm brand. Coleen's Cebu exhibit got featured on a regional news page. Jasmine sent her a book on emotional resilience with a note that read, *"This reminded me of you—soft yet solid."*
Her world was expanding, even from the quiet corners of their provincial home.
---
The second weekend of March brought a long power outage. No screens. No updates. Just the slow ticking of a battery-powered wall clock and the chirp of crickets after sunset.
Carmela, Raziel, and her two brothers sat in the living room with candles flickering gently. Her eldest brother shared ghost stories with exaggerated suspense, while her younger kuya tried to debate him with science.
"You're missing the point, kuya!" he argued. "It's *fun* because we pretend to be scared."
Carmela laughed from the floor, leaning against a pillow.
Later, she and Raziel ended up in the backyard, stargazing on a banig. The milky glow above was mesmerizing.
"Do you think we'll always be here?" she asked. "In San Jose?"
"Physically?" he asked. "Maybe not. But I think we'll carry it with us. Wherever we go."
She turned to him. "You think we'll leave someday?"
"I think we'll grow. And growing means moving, sometimes. But I don't think we'll forget."
They fell into silence again.
Raziel turned his face toward hers. "I've loved you for a long time, you know."
She met his eyes. "I know."
"And now?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
She smiled softly. "Now, I'm letting myself love you back."
No kiss followed. Just fingers entwined beneath a sky full of quiet stars.
---
The last week of March brought challenges. The DOST grant had entered review phase, and Carmela was asked to submit additional documents under tight deadlines. One night, while hunched over her laptop, she received a message from her sister in Manila.
"Kamusta ang mga plano mo, Mel?"
"Busy, Ate. But it's a good kind of busy."
"Just remember to rest. Also… you remember what we talked about? If anything happens, the investment stays hidden."
"I know. Our secret. Always."
No one else knew about the money. Not her parents, not even her brothers. Just her sister—and even then, not the full extent. The lotto winnings from her past life were a one-time miracle she never intended to flaunt. Instead, they had been the silent capital behind her early investments, her project expansions, and her capacity to stay home and build without pressure.
She believed in sustainability—not just of business, but of values.
---
As March drew to a close, the first whispers of a variant spike overseas reached local news. Carmela read the headlines with quiet concern.
"We need to be ready again," she said to Raziel one evening.
He nodded. "Barangay Byte is already discussing additional safety measures for riders."
"And I'm backing up all student data. If another lockdown happens, we'll still be operational."
They were no longer reacting to crises. They were preparing for them. Grown from experience, matured by the clarity of second chances.
The final line in Carmela's journal for the month read:
"We build slow, but we build sure. Not out of fear, but out of love."
As the first day of April neared, the fields behind the house shimmered gold under the sun, and Carmela stood barefoot at the edge of their land, eyes on the horizon.
The journey had not ended.
It was only changing shape.