Chapter 1: Prologue
The sun was already high in the sky, its scorching heat seeping through the thin curtains of my room. The alarm clock on my bedside table blared loudly, its sharp, repetitive beeps cutting through the silence.
Beep! Beep! Beep!
I groaned, slapping the snooze button with more force than necessary. The sound was a harsh reminder that I needed to get up, wash up, and head to the university. It was already 9:30 in the morning, and I had a long day ahead of me.
My name is Jake Emmanuel Dela Cruz. I'm 22 years old, a college student taking up Bachelor of Science in Physical Education. I didn't choose this course just because I liked it—though I did—but also because it supported my passion for sports, particularly basketball. It was a practical choice, or so I told myself.
I have dark, messy hair that never seems to stay in place, brown eyes that reflect my Filipino heritage, and warm brown skin that tans easily under the relentless Philippine sun. I live in San Jose Del Monte City, a bustling area in the province of Bulacan. It's not the most glamorous place, but it's home.
I attend Bulacan Central University, one of the more prestigious schools in the region. It's not as grand as the universities in Manila, but it's well-respected, and I'm proud to be part of its basketball team, the Falcons. Being on the team is both a privilege and a burden, but more on that later.
I dragged myself out of bed, my body still heavy with sleep, and headed to the bathroom. The cold tiles beneath my feet sent a shiver up my spine, but it was a welcome contrast to the stifling heat of my room. As I turned on the faucet and splashed water on my face, I couldn't shake the remnants of the dream that had haunted me yet again.
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It was always the same dream—a scene of fire and ruin. In it, I was no older than 10 years old. The air was thick with smoke, and the acrid smell of burning wood, food, and plastic filled my lungs. People were screaming, running in every direction, their faces twisted in fear. A wall of fire loomed in the distance, its flames licking hungrily at everything in its path.
In the dream, I was with my mother. We had been shopping at a mall for groceries and, as a treat, she had promised to buy me a toy. I remember clutching her hand tightly as we navigated the crowded aisles. But then, chaos erupted. The fire broke out, and in the panic, I slipped and fell. My mother didn't notice at first—the smoke was too thick, the crowd too frantic. By the time she realized I was gone, it was too late.
I stood up, coughing and disoriented, and began searching for her. But the smoke was everywhere, making it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. I stumbled toward what I thought was an exit, only to find the door locked. Despair washed over me as I sank to the ground, tears streaming down my face.
That's when I heard it—a soft, muffled cry. I turned and saw a figure in the smoke. It was a girl, small and fragile, her long hair tangled and dirty. She was crying, her shoulders shaking with fear. I couldn't see her face clearly, but I noticed a strand of her hair—white as snow—standing out against the darkness.
I crawled toward her, my own fear momentarily forgotten. "Hey," I said, my voice hoarse from the smoke. "It's going to be okay. We'll get out of here."
She looked at me, her eyes wide with terror, and said something I couldn't understand. Her voice was faint, almost drowned out by the crackling of the flames. I reached out and took her hand, squeezing it gently. "I promise," I said, though I wasn't sure what I was promising. "We'll be okay. I promise—"
But before I could say more, the dream always ended. I would wake up just as the words left my lips, my heart pounding and my sheets drenched in sweat. It was as if my mind refused to let me remember the rest—the promise, the girl, or how we escaped.
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That dream wasn't just a figment of my imagination. It was a memory—a fragmented, hazy recollection of a real event that happened when I was a child. The fire at the mall was all over the news at the time. Dozens of people were injured, and a few even lost their lives. I was one of the lucky ones. I made it out alive, thanks to the firefighters who found me huddled in a corner, unconscious but breathing.
When I woke up in the hospital, the first thing I asked my mother was, "Did you see a girl? She was with me. She had white hair."
My mother shook her head, her eyes filled with tears. "No, Jake. There was no one else with you when they found you."
I didn't press the issue, but the question lingered in my mind. Had she died in the fire? Was she even real, or just a figment of my traumatized imagination? I didn't know, and I still don't. All I know is that the dream—and the promise I made—haunts me to this day.
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After washing up, I dried myself off with a towel and headed to my wardrobe. My uniform was already ironed, courtesy of my mother. She always made sure my clothes were neat and presentable, even though she had to leave for work early in the morning.
I slipped into the uniform—a white polo shirt with the university's logo and a pair of black slacks—and grabbed my bag. As I walked out of the house, I took a moment to look at the modest two-story building I called home. It wasn't much, but it was ours.
I flagged down a tricycle, the most common mode of transportation in our area, and climbed into the passenger seat. The driver nodded at me, and we sped off toward the university. As we drove, I pulled out my phone and opened the messenger app. There was a message from my mother:
[Mom: I'll be late tonight. Don't wait up for me.]
I typed out a quick reply: [Jake: Okay, Ma. Stay safe.]
My mother worked as an operations officer at a well-known company in Quezon City. It was a high-ranking position, just below the HR department, and it came with a lot of responsibilities. She managed logistics, oversaw daily operations, and ensured that everything ran smoothly. It was a demanding job, but she excelled at it. Her colleagues respected her, and her bosses trusted her implicitly.
Still, the job took its toll. She had to commute from Bulacan to Quezon City every day, leaving the house at 6 a.m. and often not returning until 11 p.m. The traffic was brutal, and the hours were long, but she never complained. She was the strongest person I knew.
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I grew up with my mother. My father left when I was a child, after a series of heated arguments with my mom. Divorce isn't legal in the Philippines, but that didn't stop them from separating. When they finally decided to part ways, I was given a choice: live with my mother or my father. It wasn't a hard decision. My mother had always been the one who took care of me, who comforted me when I was scared, who worked tirelessly to provide for us.
My father, on the other hand, was a stranger to me. He had been in prison for most of my childhood, convicted of attempted murder. I later found out that he was part of a fraternity, and the crime was the result of a violent altercation with someone who had insulted their group. When he was released, he tried to reconnect with us, but the damage was already done. The arguments between him and my mother became a daily occurrence, and eventually, he left for good.
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It was exactly 10 a.m. when I arrived at Bulacan Central University. The campus wasn't as sprawling or as modern as the ones in Manila, but it had its own charm. The buildings were well-maintained, and the grounds were dotted with trees and benches where students could relax between classes.
My favorite spot on campus was the gymnasium. It was where I spent most of my free time, practicing basketball with my teammates or just shooting hoops by myself. The sound of the ball bouncing on the polished wooden floor, the squeak of sneakers, the roar of the crowd during games—it was my sanctuary, the one place where I could forget about everything else.
As I walked through the gates, I took a deep breath, steeling myself for the day ahead. It was going to be a long one, but I was ready. Or at least, I told myself I was.
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As I stepped through the university gates, the familiar buzz of campus life greeted me. Students gathered in groups, chatting and laughing as they made their way to their respective classes. Some rushed past me, clearly running late, while others strolled leisurely, unconcerned about the time. The morning air was warm, but a light breeze offered some relief from the heat.
Adjusting the strap of my backpack, I made my way toward the main building. The four-story structure, painted in white and blue, stood as the academic hub of the university. My class was on the fourth floor, which meant I had a bit of a climbing ahead. With a sigh, I pushed open the doors and entered.
The stairwell was packed, as usual. Students moved up and down, some chatting loudly, others staring at their phones as they walked. I squeezed past a group of first-years nervously discussing an upcoming quiz and kept climbing. By the time I reached the fourth floor, a thin layer of sweat had already formed on my forehead.
The hallways were lined with bulletin boards filled with announcements—club activities, sports tryouts, and upcoming university events. I barely spared them a glance as I continued toward my classroom—BSPE 3-A, Bachelor of Science in Physical Education, Year 3, Section A.
As I entered the room, the familiar sounds of my classmates' chatter filled the air. Some were already seated, flipping through their notes, while others stood in small groups, laughing over some inside joke.
"Hey, Jake!" a voice called out. I turned to see my friend, Anton, waving me over. He was a tall, muscular guy with a buzz cut, always brimming with energy. "Man, you look half-dead. Did you stay late at night again?"
"Something like that," I muttered, setting my bag down on my desk.
Anton grinned. "Lemme guess—basketball practice?"
I nodded. "Yeah. I couldn't sleep after the practice."
Before Anton could respond, the classroom door swung open, and our professor walked in.
"Alright, settle down, everyone," Professor Mark said, placing his books on the desk at the front of the room. He was in his early forties, with neatly combed black hair and a stocky build. Though strict when it came to academics, he was well-liked by students because of his fair grading and deep knowledge of sports science.
I straightened in my seat as he scanned the room. "Since we're in our third year, I expect you all to take your studies seriously," he began. "Many of you aspire to become professional coaches, trainers, or educators. Physical Education isn't just about playing sports—it's about discipline, strategy, and understanding the human body. Keep that in mind."
A few students groaned at the mention of serious study, but I was already used to Professor Mark's speeches. I jotted down a few notes as he continued discussing today's lesson.
As the lecture progressed, I couldn't shake the lingering thoughts of my recurring dream. That white-haired girl… who was she? Was she real, or just a part of my imagination?
I shook my head, pushing the thoughts away. Right now, I needed to focus with study now.
[A/N: The Bulacan Central University is just a fiction name]