Prologue – Patay sa Bagyo, Buhay sa Araw (Dead by the Storm, Alive by the Sun)
The air tasted of mud and fear, a gritty film coating Victor's tongue, a constant reminder of the relentless floods that had plagued Malabon for generations. Rain, thick as a wet shroud woven from the very earth, plastered his thinning hair to his scalp, each drop a tiny, stinging hammer blow against his forehead. The roar wasn't a mythical beast conjured from folklore; it was the brutal, undeniable sound of the swollen Tullahan River – the usually placid artery of their city, now a ravenous serpent – tearing its concrete banks apart with a sickening groan, swallowing not just possessions, but the very foundations of homes and lives with an indifferent, churning hunger. He'd felt the deep, guttural vibrations through the worn soles of his favorite pair of leather boots – a rare indulgence from a better year – even before he saw the coffee-colored water surging down their narrow street in Barangay Ibaba, a familiar section of Malabon, a solid, unstoppable wall carrying the flotsam and jetsam of shattered lives. The scent of wet earth and ozone hung heavy, a premonition Victor had learned to heed over his forty-seven years in this perpetually low-lying city, a city built on reclaimed swampland, forever vulnerable to the whims of the sea and the overflowing rivers. His skin prickled with a primal anticipation, a cold dread that settled deep in his bones as the storm clouds gathered like a malevolent omen on this afternoon of October 17, 2028. He'd lived in Malabon long enough to recognize the signs — the unnaturally dark sky at midday, the sudden, oppressive drop in temperature that spoke of a vast, churning weather system, the uneasy hush that fell over the neighborhood, as if the very streets were holding their breath in collective apprehension.
Then the first drops fell. Thick, deliberate, almost solid. Rain began to hammer the rusted tin roofs with a furious rhythm, like a thousand urgent fists demanding entry, each strike echoing the frantic beat of his own heart. Thunder cracked overhead, a deafening roar that shook the very foundations of their small, perpetually damp home – a testament to the relentless cycle of floods they endured, a constant battle against the encroaching water and the insidious mold that clung to the walls. Victor moved quickly, securing the few precious items outside: the rusting metal basin his wife, Elena, used for laundry, its surface now dull with disuse from the constant dampness; the children's mismatched slippers scattered near the front steps, small reminders of a life constantly under threat; a wilting potted sampaguita plant Elena stubbornly tried to keep alive, its fragrant blossoms a fragile symbol of hope against the encroaching despair. Each action was sharpened by memory, by the countless times he'd done this before, the routine etched into his muscle memory. He'd seen this before — more than once, more times than he cared to remember. But tonight, or rather, this afternoon, something felt... heavier. More final, as if the very sky was weeping for the fate of their city. By the time he stepped outside again, water was already creeping over the cracked and uneven pavements, licking at the grime-covered tires of parked tricycles, reflecting the distorted faces of his neighbors emerging in a flurry, sandbags and buckets clutched in their hands, their movements a well-rehearsed dance of survival. No one panicked — not yet. They were taga-Malabon, survivors forged in the crucible of countless monsoons and typhoons. They knew how to brace for water like others braced for wind. Still, beneath every tense face was a flicker of dread, a silent acknowledgment that Typhoon "Hagupit", which had been brewing in the Pacific for days, was proving to be far more ferocious than initially predicted, its relentless rains overwhelming the already saturated drainage systems and pushing the rivers beyond their breaking point. This flood, they sensed, would not be like the last.
He'd been a part of the frantic human chain, his neighbors and him, their faces etched with grim determination as they struggled to hoist precious belongings onto rooftops, stacking sandbags against the inexorable rise, a tragically familiar drill in this perpetually low-lying corner of the city. Victor joined the forming human chain along the narrowing street, the muddy water already swirling around his ankles. He worried for Elena and their youngest, eight-year-old Maya, a bright-eyed girl with an infectious giggle, who were likely huddled with his aging mother-in-law, Aling Carmen, a woman whose weathered face held the wisdom of generations of hardship, on the second floor of their neighbor's sturdier concrete house a few blocks away, a small comfort in this escalating chaos. His eldest, sixteen-year-old Carlo, a lanky teenager with a rebellious streak but a good heart, was out with friends; a familiar pang of anxiety twisted in Victor's gut. He always worried about Carlo, a good kid but easily swayed by his peers. They passed belongings – faded family photographs wrapped in plastic, sacks of precious rice, even caged chickens squawking in protest – and even small children alike to the relative safety of upper floors, their small, frightened faces mirroring the fear in the adults' eyes. He could see the Tullahan River from where he stood — once a lazy snake through the city's concrete sprawl, a source of livelihood for some, now a ravenous god lashing out in muddy brown fury, swelling with a primal rage that mirrored the storm above, its churning waters carrying debris from upstream – splintered bamboo, discarded furniture, even the occasional bloated carcass of a stray animal.
Victor had known hardship his entire life, a life that had taken an unexpected turn years ago. He was a retired military man, a veteran of several tours in Mindanao. A roadside IED had cost him the last two fingers on his left hand, a permanent reminder of his service and the reason for his early retirement. The injury still ached in damp weather, a phantom throb that mirrored the unease of the approaching storm. After his discharge, he'd sought a quieter life, channeling his mechanical aptitude into Mang Ben's small auto repair shop near the market. His right hand was still strong and capable, but the missing fingers on his left sometimes made intricate work a challenge, a source of quiet frustration. He'd worked tirelessly, his remaining fingers stained with grease and oil, the smell of gasoline and worn tires clinging to his clothes, providing for his family with a quiet, unwavering dedication. There had been small victories – Carlo graduating top of his elementary class, a moment of immense pride for Victor and Elena; the rare occasions when they could afford a decent family meal at the local carinderia, a treat they all savored; the hard-earned down payment for a second-hand refrigerator that now stood precariously on cinder blocks inside their home, a symbol of their aspirations for a slightly better life. But there had been defeats too – the constant struggle against poverty, the times Elena had to pawn her mother's silver locket, a cherished heirloom, to make ends meet during lean months; the gnawing fear that one day, one of these floods would take everything they had, not just their possessions but their very lives. Regret was a constant companion, a dull ache in his chest, sometimes sharper than the phantom pain in his missing fingers. He often thought of the comrades he'd lost, the missions that haunted his sleep, the sense of purpose that had faded with his military career, replaced by the mundane routines of the repair shop. He regretted the sharp words spoken in anger to Elena during moments of stress, the times he'd been too tired or too preoccupied with work to truly listen to his children's stories or share their joys.
Despite his injuries and the quiet life he now led, the soldier's instincts were never truly dormant. He'd always tried to be a good man, a responsible father, a decent neighbor. He'd volunteered for the Barangay Disaster Risk Reduction and Management Council, his first-aid training from his military days proving invaluable in past emergencies. He'd helped repair damaged homes after previous typhoons, his calloused right hand still skilled with tools and makeshift repairs, often using his partially missing left hand to brace materials. He'd shared his meager earnings with those worse off, offering what little he had to those who had even less. A small sense of pride flickered within him at these memories, quickly overshadowed by the immediate crisis, the urgency of the rising water and the cries of his neighbors. He thought of Elena's unwavering strength, her quiet resilience in the face of constant adversity, Aling Carmen's stoic wisdom, and the innocent laughter of Maya, the light of their lives. He prayed for their safety, a silent plea carried on the wind and the rain.
Then, a sound that sliced through the storm's relentless din – a scream, high-pitched and raw with pure terror. A small boy, no older than seven, his bright red sando a fleeting splash of color against the muddy deluge, had been wrenched from his mother's desperate grasp by a sudden, vicious eddy near the overflowing drainpipe, swept away towards the swirling vortex near the Libertad Public Market, its stalls already half-submerged and collapsing under the relentless pressure of the water. Victor remembered seeing the frantic mother, Nanay Ising, a vendor he often bought vegetables from, her face a mask of utter despair, her outstretched arms reaching out uselessly as her child, little Benjo, was swallowed by the brown fury. The image seared itself into his mind, a visceral reminder of the human cost of this disaster.
Without a second thought, the ingrained reflex of a lifetime of service kicking in, Victor had plunged into the churning, icy water. The immediate shock stole his breath, the force of the current slamming against him like a physical blow, disorienting him instantly. He fought against the relentless, unseen hand pulling him under, the sharp edges of splintered wood from a collapsed fence and jagged pieces of corrugated iron roofing scraping against his skin, drawing thin lines of blood that immediately dissolved into the murky water. The flood was a suffocating concoction of rainwater, overflowing drains carrying raw sewage, and the very earth itself, a thick, blinding slurry that filled his mouth and nose, the taste acrid and metallic, the smell foul and sickening. The cold was a shock, a numbing embrace that threatened to steal his strength. Victor fought against the unseen hand pulling him under, his eyes scanning the murky water for any sign of the boy, a desperate prayer forming on his lips for the child's safety, a silent plea to whatever forces governed this watery chaos. His partially missing left hand struggled for purchase in the swirling currents, a frustrating reminder of his limitations, but his right hand remained strong and determined.
He'd reached the boy, a small, flailing figure swallowed by the brown immensity, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated terror, his small hands paddling frantically against the unforgiving current. The child's frantic grip on Victor's arm was a tangible weight of desperation, a small life clinging to his. He spotted the child again — small, flailing, vanishing beneath the surface for a heart-stopping moment — and with a final push, fueled by a surge of adrenaline and a fierce protectiveness that mirrored his love for his own children, Victor closed the distance. His right hand found the child's wrist, small and fragile, the bones feeling alarmingly delicate. For a moment, it was enough. The child clung to him like a life raft, his cries lost in the cacophony of the storm and the raging water. Hauling him back towards the precarious safety of a partially submerged bangka, its outrigger precariously tilted at a dangerous angle, was a brutal, agonizing struggle. His lungs screamed for air, each stroke a herculean effort against the unforgiving current, his muscles burning with exertion. His left leg, he registered with a jolt of pain, was bleeding freely – a hidden shard of something sharp, perhaps glass or a piece of metal, had ripped through the denim of his jeans, the cold water doing little to staunch the flow, the crimson staining the murky water around them. The boy clung to Victor, his face a mask of terror, his small body wracked with shivers. Victor held him tight, his own strength waning against the relentless current, the image of his own children flashing through his mind, a silent promise to return to them, to hold them close once this nightmare was over. The bangka groaned beneath their weight, threatening to capsize, the fragile wood protesting under the immense pressure of the water, its timbers creaking ominously. His grip with his partially missing left hand was precarious, forcing his right arm to bear the brunt of the strain.
They'd clung to the slippery side of the boat, the wood groaning under the immense strain of the water's relentless force, threatening to give way at any moment. The boy was wracked with violent sobs, his small body trembling uncontrollably with cold and fear. Victor held him tight, a primal protectiveness overriding his own mounting pain and exhaustion, his strength ebbing away with the crimson trail blooming in the surrounding water. He could feel the bangka beginning to disintegrate, the fibers of the wood protesting with sharp cracks and groans, the once-sturdy vessel now a death trap. In a flash of insight, a grim understanding of their dwindling chances, Victor knew they'd never make it to shore. The flood was too powerful, the current too strong, the distance too great. He glanced around, searching desperately for an alternative, his eyes scanning the submerged landscape for any sign of safety, any handhold in this watery chaos, his gaze hampered by the stinging rain and the murky water.
Then, the sickening, inevitable lurch. The fragile vessel capsized with a violent roll, throwing them both back into the chaotic embrace of the flood. Victor's head struck the overturned hull with a sickening thud, a blinding flash of white-hot pain exploding behind his eyes, momentarily stealing his senses, plunging him into a dizzying darkness within the greater darkness of the water. He went under, the foul-tasting water filling his mouth and nose, the coppery tang of his own blood mingling with the grime. That's when he saw it – a small alleyway between two houses, partially submerged but potentially safer than the open water, a narrow sliver of hope in the overwhelming despair, a dark crevice offering a chance of survival. With a final surge of adrenaline, fueled by a desperate will to survive and save the child, Victor kicked toward the alley, the boy clinging to his back like a fragile burden, his small arms wrapped tightly around Victor's neck, his grip surprisingly strong. The missing fingers on Victor's left hand offered little purchase as he tried to navigate the debris-filled water.
He clawed his way back to the surface, gasping for a ragged breath of the rain-soaked air, the heavy drops pelting his face like tiny stones. He saw the boy a few feet away, his small hands reaching blindly above the surface, his eyes wide with a terror that mirrored his own, before he was swallowed once more by a swirling vortex of debris – a broken chair, a discarded tire, the remnants of shattered homes. Desperation, a primal, animalistic urge, lent Victor a final, agonizing surge of adrenaline. He lunged forward, reaching blindly through the murky water, his outstretched right hand brushing against the slick, small hand. But another crushing wave, laden with splintered bamboo and floating refuse, crashed over them, tearing their fragile connection apart once more. He flailed wildly, trying to locate the boy in the disorienting brown labyrinth, his injured left hand useless in the chaos, but the flood was a relentless, uncaring force. The water buffeted them about, but Victor, guided by a desperate instinct, managed to reach the alley, the rough concrete scraping against his raw hands, offering a precarious grip. He lifted the boy with the last vestiges of his strength and pushed him onto the relative safety of the concrete floor, following close behind, his body heavy with exhaustion and the chilling premonition of failure, the image of the boy's terrified face burned into his memory.
His vision began to blur at the edges, the world dissolving into hazy shapes. The throbbing pain in his leg intensified, a dull, insistent ache now overshadowed by the searing burn in his lungs. He was swallowing more water than air, choking, his limbs growing heavy and unresponsive, as if weighted down by unseen stones. The deafening roar of the flood began to recede, replaced by a high-pitched, insistent ringing in his ears, a prelude to a deeper silence. The last sensation was the icy, suffocating embrace of the water, a crushing pressure that pulled him down, down, down into an absolute, lightless void. For a moment, they lay there, panting, the storm raging on, the alley offering only a temporary reprieve from the relentless current. Then, the boy's eyes, wide and still filled with terror, locked onto Victor's, and he whispered, the single word a heartbreaking plea, "Tatay?"
Then… a cessation of all sensation. Not a peaceful drifting into oblivion, but an abrupt, jarring halt, like a worn-out machine grinding to a sudden stop. Victor's heart twisted. He wasn't the boy's father, but in that moment, looking into those terrified eyes, he felt a deep, visceral connection, a responsibility that transcended blood, a fierce determination to protect this small life against the overwhelming forces of nature. "I'm here," he said, his voice hoarse from shouting over the storm and thick with emotion, each word a painful effort, the missing fingers on his left hand twitching involuntarily. "You're safe." The boy nodded, a single tear tracing a clean path through the grime on his cheek, a silent testament to his fear and his fragile hope. Victor pulled him into a tight hug, shielding him from the worst of the wind and rain, a silent vow to protect this innocent life, a desperate attempt to find redemption for his own shortcomings, for the faces of the fallen comrades that sometimes haunted his dreams.
The first sensation was the profound, unsettling absence of the roar. A heavy, almost physical silence pressed against what felt like newly cleared ears, a stark contrast to the cacophony that had consumed his final moments. Then, a different kind of wetness – not the violent, churning onslaught of the flood, but a soft, almost clammy dampness clinging to his skin, like a humid shroud. As the storm intensified, the wind howling like a banshee outside the precarious shelter of the alley, Victor knew they had to find a safer place. He spotted a small house nearby, its door slightly ajar, a fragile invitation in the overwhelming destruction. With the boy clinging to his right hand, his small fingers surprisingly strong despite his fear, Victor pushed through the waist-deep water toward the house, his own exhaustion a leaden weight in his limbs, each step a monumental effort, his injured leg throbbing with pain.
He tried to cough, a deep, racking expulsion of the water he knew, with a chilling certainty, must be filling his lungs. But his chest felt… alien. Smaller, constricted, yet strangely heavy in a way that defied his last memories of drowning. They stumbled inside, collapsing onto the cool, damp floor of what appeared to be a small sala, exhausted and shivering. Victor's gaze swept the room, taking in the simple furnishings – a weathered wooden table, a few low bangko stools, the flickering light of a single tallow candle illuminating the religious icons on the wall, their painted eyes seeming to watch him with a silent understanding. This would have to do, a temporary sanctuary against the raging storm, a fragile haven in the heart of the disaster.
Opening his eyes was an immense effort, the lids feeling strangely light. The world swam into a blurry, low-angled perspective, resolving slowly into the rough, uneven weave of a nipa roof directly above him. The scent was alien, carrying none of the harsh realities of his former life.
He lay on a hard, woven mat, the texture rough against skin that felt strangely smooth and unblemished. He tried to move his left hand, expecting the familiar ache and the absence of two fingers, but instead, five small, fully formed digits wiggled easily. The phantom pain was gone. Panic, sharp and cold, clawed at his throat. This couldn't be real. Was he dreaming? A nightmare born of the flood's trauma? He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself back to the familiar dampness of the alley, the faint cries of the other survivors. But the rough mat remained beneath him, the floral scent still heavy in the air.
Opening his eyes was an immense effort, the lids feeling strangely light. The world swam into a blurry, low-angled perspective, resolving slowly into the rough, uneven weave of a nipa roof directly above him. Sunlight filtered through the gaps, creating dancing patterns of light and shadow, illuminating dust motes in the still air. The silence was profound, broken only by the gentle rustling of the nipa in a light breeze, a stark contrast to the roaring chaos he remembered. The air was thick with the unfamiliar, cloying scent of brine mixed with the earthy aroma of sun-baked clay and something else, something vaguely floral and sweet, like the sampaguita Elena stubbornly tried to grow, a scent utterly unlike the metallic tang of floodwater and the stench of diesel from his repair shop. He instinctively inhaled deeply, a primal act of trying to understand this new environment. His modern mind struggled to categorize the scent – something natural, untainted by exhaust fumes or industrial cleaners.
He tried to sit up, but his limbs felt weak and uncoordinated. Small hands, so unlike his calloused, scarred ones, pushed against the mat. He looked down at his body – thin arms, a small chest, the smooth, unblemished skin utterly alien. A wave of nausea washed over him, the disconnect between his memories and his physical form deeply unsettling. He willed his legs to move, the ingrained discipline of a soldier demanding action, but the small limbs responded with a sluggishness he'd never known.
A shadow fell over him. An old man with skin the color of sun-baked earth and eyes that held the wisdom of countless seasons knelt beside him, his gaze gentle yet searching. He wore a simple camisa of a rough, unbleached fabric and dark trousers tied at the waist with a length of rope. Around his neck hung a small, intricately carved wooden amulet, depicting what looked like a stylized animal. He spoke in a soft, melodic tongue, words Victor didn't understand, yet somehow... recognized the cadence, the rhythm of a language he'd only heard in old documentaries about the Philippines.
"Iñigo," the old man murmured, his voice like the rustling of dry leaves. He reached out a weathered hand, its touch surprisingly gentle on Iñigo's forehead. His fingernails were yellowed and thick, the hands bearing the marks of hard labor.
The name echoed in the sudden silence of Victor's mind, a foreign sound that inexplicably felt like his own. The distant crow of a rooster drifted through the open window, along with the faint sounds of children's laughter and the rhythmic thwack-thwack of something being pounded. A flicker of memory – the sharp, rhythmic clang of metal on metal, a sound from his repair shop – briefly overlaid the sounds of this new world, a jarring reminder of what he had lost.
Victor Reyes, the retired soldier from a future Malabon, was gone. In his place lay Iñigo, a child of this unfamiliar time, his mind a vessel carrying the vivid, impossible memories of another man's life, memories that included the stark reality of a missing part of himself that was now inexplicably restored. The flood had been a death, but the awakening was a profound and terrifying rebirth. He was trapped, a ghost in a child's frame, adrift in a sea of years that were not his own, carrying the perplexing anomaly of a healed wound he no longer physically possessed. The secret of who he was, of the life he remembered, was a dangerous burden, a silent lightning waiting to strike in this quiet coastal town, under the watchful gaze of a world he no longer understood, where the first fragile breath of Tandang Kidlat had been drawn.