Lamplight

The sala was dim, empty, and quiet.

I had arrived in Boac mid-afternoon, but I wouldn't get home until very late in the evening.

On the table was my cold meal, covered in banana leaves—a bowl of rice and a bowl of milkfish stew. Beside them were a plate and a spoon and fork.

Isabela must have waited for me for a while.

I threw my rayadillo jacket onto the sofa, and it left my shoulders like a bag of stones.

Then I removed the socks—they had felt like cold metal chains wrapped around my legs.

Tired and hungry, I dug into the meal wordlessly. The staleness of the food and the silence of the house could almost make me cry. Heavy thoughts swirled in my mind, suffocating. I was too old for this.

So it was music to my ears when I heard the door creak open.