A Glimpse of Daily Life

No one was home at the time. His grandmother was working on a carinderia as a cook near the wet market and his little sister, Leila, was in the school. 

He looked at his phone again and checked the time. It was 5:09 in the afternoon, and he was nine minutes late in his shift. So he has a night shift as in the morning. The memories that had fused into his mind told him that this wasn't the first time he had cut it close with his shifts. This version of him—this alternate Inigo—was a college student in the mornings, attending classes in a state university. After exhausting hours of lectures, he would return home for a quick nap before heading to his part-time job at the café.

However, today, he had overslept.

And given that he had just woken up in this new reality, trying to process everything, he had wasted even more time.

His boss, Harold, was a strict man. Not particularly cruel, but he had little patience for employees who couldn't show up on time. And the message was clear—if he didn't arrive soon, which was impossible, he could consider himself fired.

Inigo took a deep breath. He need that job, otherwise he wouldn't be able to contribute to the household expenses, wouldn't be able to help Nanay Lina, and wouldn't be able to keep studying.

A sigh escaped his lips as he checked the time again. 5:11 PM. He was already late, and even if he rushed, it would still take fifteen minutes by tricycle to get to the café.

Still, he had to try.

He slung his bag over his shoulder, grabbed the few crumpled peso bills from his wallet, and rushed out of the house.

The sun had started to set, casting an orange glow over the streets as Inigo sprinted toward the tricycle terminal. He weaved through the familiar narrow alleyways, past the neighborhood sari-sari stores where kids were buying snacks, and through a busy street where the smell of grilled isaw and barbecue filled the air.

Everything felt so real.

The rough pavement under his worn-out sneakers, the chatter of vendors bargaining with customers, the roar of jeepneys struggling through traffic—it wasn't just nostalgia, it was his new reality.

He reached the tricycle terminal, panting.

"Brother! Take the shortcut to the café on the highway!" Inigo called out, waving at a nearby driver.

The tricycle driver, an older man in his forties, gave him a look. "Hurry up, get in."

Inigo hopped into the sidecar, barely catching his breath as the vehicle rumbled forward.

With the wind whipping against his face, he thought about his next move.

—

Fifteen minutes later, the tricycle came to a screeching halt in front of Harold's Coffee & Pastries.

Inigo practically threw the fare at the driver and dashed inside.

The moment he stepped through the glass doors, he knew he was in trouble.

The café was packed.

Every seat was occupied, the line at the counter was long, and only one other employee was struggling to keep up with the orders.

And standing by the espresso machine with his arms crossed, a deep scowl on his face, was Harold.

"Inigo," Harold's voice was low but firm, the kind of tone that told him he was one step away from getting kicked out.

Inigo didn't hesitate.

He bowed his head. "I'm sorry, Boss Harold. No excuses—I messed up. It won't happen again."

Harold let out a long sigh, rubbing his temples.

"I've heard that before," he muttered.

Inigo kept his head down, waiting for the final verdict.

A few seconds passed before Harold finally grunted.

"Get behind the counter. You're already late. Make yourself useful."

Inigo's shoulders relaxed. He wasn't fired—yet.

"Yes, sir!"

And just like that, he was back in the grind.

The next few hours were a non-stop rush.

Inigo found himself juggling orders—brewing coffee, preparing frappes, toasting sandwiches, and running plates to impatient customers. His hands moved on autopilot, muscle memory kicking in from the original body's past experiences.

It was physically exhausting.

By the time the crowd thinned out and the café neared closing, Inigo felt like collapsing.

His arms ached from carrying trays, his legs were sore from standing, and his clothes were sticking to his skin from sweat.

But despite all of that…

He felt alive.

Maybe it was the rush of working under pressure, or maybe it was just the thrill of having a goal again.

Either way, Inigo knew—this was temporary.

10:30 PM.

The last customer had left, and the café was now empty except for him, Ella, and Harold.

Harold leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "You worked hard tonight."

Inigo wiped his hands on a towel. "I'll do better tomorrow."

Harold snorted. "We'll see." He reached into his apron pocket and tossed a few peso bills onto the counter. "Your pay for today." 

Inigo picked up the money. It was 150 pesos.

It wasn't much.

But right now?

Every peso counted.

He nodded. "Thanks, boss."

Harold grunted. "Go home. Get some sleep. And don't do that again."

—

As Inigo stepped outside, the cool night air hit him, washing away the fatigue.

He glanced at the few peso bills in his hand, and noticed that the people on the bill were different from the original bills in his previous life. 

"Could it be that history is different in this world?" Inigo thought to himself.

Inigo let out a deep sigh, shaking his head. Another mystery to solve later. Right now, he needed to get home.

He flagged down a passing tricycle and hopped in, leaning his head against the sidecar's metal frame as the vehicle rattled through the dimly lit streets. His body was exhausted, but his mind was racing.

A different world. A different version of himself. A different history.

But one thing remained the same—he needed to make money.

His ride home didn't take long. Soon, he arrived at a small, single-story house tucked in a quiet alleyway. The lights inside were dim, and everything was silent except for the occasional barking of stray dogs.

He carefully unlocked the front door and stepped inside.

The familiar scent of warm rice and fried food still lingered in the air.

He peered into the small bedroom. His little sister, Leila, was curled up under a blanket, sleeping soundly.

His eyes then moved to another tiny bedroom at the end of the hallway. The door was slightly ajar, and through the opening, he could see his grandmother, Nanay Lina, sleeping on her side, facing the wall.

She must have been exhausted.

Inigo took a silent step closer, watching her for a moment. The old woman's face was peaceful, but even in sleep, the hard lines of exhaustion were visible. Her hands—rough, calloused, and worn from years of labor—rested gently on the blanket.

His chest tightened.

He had seen people spend millions on luxury, wasting money on things they didn't even need.

Yet here was Nanay Lina, working herself to the bone just to put food on the table.

She had given everything for him and Leila. And this was how life had repaid her?

No.

He wasn't going to let her struggle any longer.

He quietly stepped back and made his way to his bedroom.

His room was small and cluttered—a cramped space just big enough for a thin mattress, a rickety wooden desk, and a few shelves lined with old textbooks and second-hand computer parts.

Atop the desk sat an old laptop, its surface scratched and slightly dented. The sticker on the side was peeling, revealing a faded logo.

This wasn't a brand-new machine.

This was bought second-hand, saved up for peso by peso, most likely by Nanay Lina herself.

Next to the laptop was a USB stick—one of those plug-and-play internet devices, a relic from the past.

Inigo let out a dry chuckle.

No fiber internet. No high-speed satellite connection.

Just a slow, unreliable prepaid internet stick that would disconnect every time someone used the microwave.

This was the stone age.

Still, he had no choice.

He sat down, plugged in the USB stick, and powered on the laptop.

The fan inside whirred loudly, struggling to keep up as the screen flickered to life.

With a deep breath, he cracked his knuckles.

"Alright. Let's see what I'm working with."

His fingers moved swiftly, opening the file explorer, checking available storage, and scanning the specs of the laptop.

Processor: Dual-core Intel (weak but usable).

RAM: 2GB (painfully slow).

Storage: 150GB HDD (ancient).

Graphics Card: None.

Inigo groaned.

This thing wouldn't even run Minesweeper properly.

Still, it didn't matter.

He wasn't planning on making a high-end, triple-A game right now.

His first step was to research—to check if the history is the same as his previous world. He searched the current president of the Philippines and instead of it being Noynoy Aquino, it was a completely different name.

"Alfredo Velasco?" Inigo muttered, staring at the search results in disbelief.

He quickly scrolled through the information, his brows furrowing.

Alfredo Velasco had won the presidential election in 2009. His administration focused on economic development, technological advancement, and national security.

The more he read, the more his stomach twisted.

This wasn't just a minor change—this was an entirely different timeline.

If history was this different, then what else had changed?

His heart pounded as he typed in another search.

"Top Tech Companies in 2010."

Inigo stared at the screen, letting the search results sink in.

Google. Facebook. YouTube. IBM. Microsoft.

The tech giants were still here—unchanged, standing at the top just as they did in his previous world.

But when he typed in "Most downloaded mobile games of 2010", the list that appeared was completely different.

No Angry Birds.

No Plants vs. Zombies.

No Temple Run.

No Clash of Clans.

Instead, the top charts were filled with basic puzzle games, some low-effort arcade clones, and a few clunky RPGs that looked like they had been thrown together without much thought.

He let out a slow breath, an idea forming in his head. If those games don't exist, then in that case he could recreate those games and publish them as his own, and since those games earned hundreds of million of dollars, it meant that he could potentially earn that kind of money, and with it, start his own gaming company. 

Good thing that he still knows how those games are made since he was a gaming addict when he was a child. He knows the code, and everything that comes with it. 

"I apologize to the real creators of those games but I'm going to recreate your games and you won't be able to do anything, since you don't exist in this world."

Now—to the experiment. His laptop, despite the specs, could still make a simple game. He already has an idea on what to make, inspired from the story in his previous life where a developer made 50,000 dollars per month from ads alone.

The name of that game was Flappy Bird.