No More War Here
Chapter Twenty-eight: No More War Here
Even the strongest armor can't shield a wounded heart.
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The normally sleepy street outside my shop now hummed with a new energy. Laughter spilled from open windows, carried on the scent of frying pan de sal. More adventurers, their newly issued Maniniyut badges glinting on their tunics, swaggered past. Susan had mentioned the town hall was in a state of joyful chaos. Sarimanook was on the cusp of transformation.
For the first time since I'd tumbled into this world, a fragile sense of belonging had started to take root.
But amidst all the excitement, a shadow had fallen over my little corner of Sarimanook.
A shadow named Marikit.
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"Hey Marikit, can you grab that big box of lighters for me?" I asked, keeping my voice light.
Silence.
"Marikit?" I called a little louder. Her small back was to me, her shoulders hunched.
She squeaked, a tiny, startled sound, and whirled around, her eyes wide and unfocused.
"S-sorry, Kuya Pepito! You wanted... a broom, right?"
My brow furrowed. That was the third time this morning she'd seemed lost in another world.
"Lighters, Marikit," I said gently.
My usually laser-focused assistant was… drifting. I caught that haunted, vacant look in her usually bright eyes. Her quick smile was a pale imitation, fragile as spun glass.
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Later that day, I hung the Closed for the Day sign on the door. Business was booming, but the Ginto could wait.
This couldn't.
Looking at Marikit, a small, hunched shadow listlessly wiping down the counter, the mountains of coin I'd earned suddenly felt cold and meaningless.
What good was all this if the little girl who'd been my first real friend here was so clearly hurting?
I took a deep breath, steeling myself. Time to channel my inner wise, compassionate adult.
But before I could even open my mouth—
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"Um… Kuya Pepito?" Her voice was a bare whisper, fragile as a cobweb.
She stood in front of the counter, her small hands trembling violently, twisting the fabric of her worn skirt.
Her eyes flickered like a candle flame threatening to extinguish.
"I, um… I…" Her lips parted, trembled, then pressed into a thin, white line.
Then—a shuddering breath, a flicker of desperate resolve.
"Kuya Pepito… can you… can you please lend me some money?"
The words, whispered with such raw, painful effort, struck me with unexpected force.
My carefully prepared 'wise adult' speech evaporated.
She was still trembling, shoulders taut as if expecting a blow.
I opened my mouth, but only a stunned, inadequate sound emerged.
"Um…"
Her face twitched, and then the dam broke. Great, shuddering sobs racked her small frame, each one a physical blow to my own heart.
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"Why… why do you need money?" I asked, scrambling to recover, my voice hoarse.
"I—I'm sorry!" she wailed, burying her face in her hands. "I don't wanna bother you, Kuya Pepito! I'm so, so sorry!"
"Hey, hey—shhh, tama na, little one, it's okay!"
My awkwardness vanished, replaced by a fierce, protective urgency.
I rushed around the counter and knelt beside her, my hand resting gently on her trembling back.
"You're not bothering me, Marikit. Not one bit. You're being incredibly brave. You asked something that was very hard for you to ask. You did really, really well."
I already had a heavy suspicion forming in my gut.
"Marikit," I ventured gently, "did something happen to your mom?"
She looked up, her tear-streaked face a mask of raw surprise. Her lips quivered.
"Mama's... she's not..."
The words caught, choked by a fresh wave of sobs.
"Please," I whispered, my heart aching. "Just tell me what happened. Whatever it is, I'll help. I promise."
She nodded, ready to pour out the story.
And right then—
as if the universe had a quota for dramatic tension—
the shop door flew open with a bang.
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Tak, Daks, and Susan all burst in one after another, each with their own urgent reason, only to skid to a halt as they took in the tear-filled scene.
After a moment of awkward apologies and genuine concern, I turned back to the little girl.
"What do you think, Marikit? Do you want to talk with just me here?"
Marikit sniffled, peeking up at the worried faces around her. A tiny nod was her only response before she whispered:
"It's… it's okay. I don't mind if Miss Susan, Kuya Tak, and Kuya Daks stay."
"Okay," I said, nodding to the others. "Well, you heard her. We're ready to listen."
She sniffled again, wiping her face with the back of her frayed sleeve.
She placed a trembling hand on her chest, taking a shaky, fortifying breath that seemed to draw on some hidden well of courage.
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"It's my mama," she said, her voice cracking.
"My mama's… sick."
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Author's Note:
This chapter hit me hard while writing it. Marikit's strength is quiet, but it echoes louder than any battle cry. Sometimes the real war isn't out there with monsters and mayhem—it's inside a child's chest, fighting to hold back tears.
If you've ever had to ask for help and it almost broke you... I see you.
Thank you for being here for these moments, too. Not just the epic, dragon-slaying, festival-flavored highs—but the ones where someone just needs to be heard.
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Mini Glossary
Pan de sal – A soft, slightly sweet Filipino bread roll commonly eaten for breakfast.
Kuya – A respectful title in Filipino used for older brothers or older males.
Tama na – Filipino phrase meaning "That's enough" or "It's okay now."
Ginto – Literally means "gold," here used to refer to wealth or money.
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Like What You Read?
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