The morning haze lifted slowly over the highway as Danielle merged onto the northbound highway, her Bronco humming beneath her like an old companion. With Leo safe at her parents' farm, and no meetings, pings, or screens demanding her presence, she drove without a playlist. Just the steady rhythm of tires against pavement, and the occasional buzz of tricycles in nearby towns breaking the silence.
She didn't rush.
There was something sacred about not rushing.
In San Miguel, she pulled into a 7-Eleven with faded signage and a broken fridge humming too loudly near the entrance. She grabbed a cold bottle of water, a tuna sandwich, and two packs of Nova—the same kind she used to eat while pulling double shifts in her old site engineering days.
"Miss, kailangan niyo ng resibo?"
"Hindi na, salamat."
Outside, she sat on the curb, sandwich unwrapped, the heat pressing gently against her shoulders. A part of her still checked her phone instinctively—but there were no pings. No fire to put out. Is this what peace feels like?
An hour later, she stopped again—this time at a roadside rest stop near the outskirts of Gapan. A small sari-sari store had rows of dusty products, but she found what she needed: a bottle of alcohol, slightly overpriced and probably near expiry. Still, she paid without blinking as she left hers with Leo.
I used to do math for everything, she thought, now I just swipe and go.
She rolled into Cabanatuan and pulled over at a roadside carinderia.
The woman behind the grill flipped catfish over hot coals, the air thick with smoke and vinegar. Danielle ordered the whole fish with garlic rice, no soda. Just water. She sat alone at a plastic table under a tarpaulin roof, the sun already heating the back of her neck.
This is what I ate after my first field survey. Baler was the first site I camped in for three nights straight. Just me, a tape measure, and crumbling bricks built by forced labor centuries ago.
"May suka kayo?"
"May suka, may calamansi, may sili. Kompleto."
The woman behind the counter grinned, tossing it all into a plastic bowl with practiced speed. Danielle drizzled the mix over her rice, letting herself savor the vinegar's bite.
Each bite grounded her. Reminded her of who she was before the tower offices and bronze plaques.
I've built enough to last us. This week isn't running away. Neither is the offer.
She didn't need to decide today.
For now, the catfish was perfect, the sun was merciful, and the road ahead curved gently toward Aurora. She'd drive until the sea came into view.
And maybe then, she'd know what to do.
Danielle first discovered Baler in college —on a cramped, sweaty bus, clutching a copy of her thesis proposal, a half-broken camera, and a survey kit she borrowed from a senior who told her, "Don't die in the next province!" while working on her undergraduate thesis about Spanish-era architecture in the Philippines.
Her research centered on how old churches and civic buildings—some of them over three hundred years old—had withstood centuries of typhoons, earthquakes, and colonial change. It fascinated her, how coral stone, lime mortar, and indigenous techniques combined to create structures that outlived their builders.
Baler wasn't part of the original list of heritage sites she pitched to her professor. But when she saw a grainy photo of the old Spanish-era watchtower near Sabang, her gut told her it was worth the detour. The bus broke down once in Nueva Ecija. She nearly gave up. But when she finally stepped off at the tiny terminal in Baler—sweaty, sleep-deprived, sore from the 8-hour ride—she saw the crumbling ruins, the defiant churches, the coral-stone walls patched with history and heat, and she knew.
This was it.
Back then, she stayed in homestays where the roofs leaked when it rained, sharing rice and tuyo with locals who called her 'engineer' even before she earned the title. She climbed walls barefoot. Sketched and took photos till her fingers cramped. Talked to grandmothers who remembered storms from fifty years ago and how the bell tower still stood, unmoved.
She built her thesis around those stories. Around how colonial structures, despite the horror of their origins, had survived by design—wide buttresses, thick mortar, wood that breathed with the climate. And she asked, in the heart of Manila's glass towers and quick builds: why weren't we building to last anymore?
After graduation, when work overwhelmed her or life grew too loud, she'd slip away again. Quietly. Catch the 10 p.m. Genesis bus from Cubao. Ride in the dark. Arrive in time for the sunrise.
Baler always welcomed her back the same way—without fanfare. No neon. No noise. Just the slow hush of waves and the low hum of trees that had stood longer than her problems.
She loved the contradiction of it.
How the sea roared loudest when she needed silence. How the wind scattered her thoughts until the important ones remained. How she could walk barefoot into town and not be Danielle of any job or title. Just Danielle, the girl with sand in her shoes and questions in her chest.
Even after Leo was born, she never told anyone about this place.
It wasn't secrecy. It was preservation.
Baler was the one corner of her life that hadn't been touched by ambition, heartbreak, or expectation.
It was hers.
And now, as she drove farther into the mountains—road curving with muscle memory and mist settling over the trees—she felt that familiar ache in her chest. Not sadness. Not joy. Just the quiet recognition of returning to a version of herself she'd nearly forgotten.
The girl who built dreams with a camera, a notebook, and a backpack.
The woman who might be ready—finally—to ask what kind of life she really wanted.
It always did.
The road began to narrow, curling into the dense forest like a secret it didn't want to share. Danielle's Bronco handled the climb with ease, its tires steady against the winding mountain turns. She had the windows down—always did on drives like this. The wind tangled in her hair, cool and sharp, scented with pine and early morning earth.
She had seen other vehicles over the ridges of the mountains. Just the rise and fall of hills, the occasional monkey darting between trees, and the ever-widening sky above her calmed the thoughts raging over. As she neared the peak—where the road overlooked the Pantabangan Dam—she pulled over to a gravel shoulder with a practiced ease. She shut off the engine and let silence take its rightful place.
Danielle stepped out.
The air was thinner here. Fresher. As if the altitude had filtered out everything heavy.
Below her, the reservoir stretched out in quiet majesty. Deep blues and greens shift under the sunlight, calm and undisturbed. The water seemed to breathe slowly, like it had nothing to prove.
She walked to the edge of the lookout, hands in her pockets, letting the breeze push softly at her shirt.
I haven't felt this… still in years.
No alarms. No calendars. No inbox. No eyes watching her moves.
Just her.
Her and the road.
She looked at the Bronco—dirt-streaked, faithful, still humming warm from the climb.
"You brought me here," she murmured with a small smile. And I'm finally ready to be here.
Her thoughts drifted—no longer spinning with numbers, decisions, or contingency plans. Just sensations. The hum of her own breath. The feel of her boots on loose gravel. The way her heart didn't race with anxiety for once.
Years ago, this kind of solitude would've made her scream. At life. At the world. At the unfairness of having to fight for everything while others were handed so much. She had driven roads like this with tears in her eyes, fists clenched around the wheel.
But now?
Now she was just… grateful.
Grateful for the struggle. Grateful she didn't give in.
Because every hardship taught her how to be steady. How to listen. How to think before she moved.
She closed her eyes, lifted her chin to the breeze.
No fear. No doubt.
Just a quiet readiness.
She didn't need anyone to see her here. She didn't need applause or validation.
This moment—this mountain, this silence—it belonged to her. And in it, she was whole.
The descent from the Pantabangan lookout was gentler than she remembered, but no less stunning.
The road unfolded like a ribbon drawn carefully through the ridges—switchbacks curling beneath canopies of old trees, their leaves catching the sunlight in flickers of gold and green. Ferns spilled onto the roadside, brushing the edges of the pavement as if reaching for her tires. There was no one else on the road. Just the occasional carabao grazing by the slope, farmers on motorcycles hauling sacks of rice, and mountain birds darting low in flight.
She kept the windows down. Let the cool air rush in and coat her skin with that wild, unmistakable scent of earth and water and sky.
It was like driving into a painting.
Somewhere past the dam, a small cascade spilled into a stream by the side of the road, misting faintly in the morning light. Danielle slowed for a moment just to watch it—how many years had it been flowing like that? How many people had passed by and never stopped to see it?
The climb gave way to broad stretches of road flanked by tall coconut trees, then smaller barangay centers. Concrete gave way to patched roads and gravel. She passed through Maria Aurora quietly—its modest houses and sari-sari stores nestled under banana trees, people waving as she drove past. A young boy chased a tricycle barefoot. A man repaired a tin roof, shirtless, radio playing an old love song.
Then the scent changed—saltier, damp with sea air.
Danielle smiled without realizing it.
She had reached Baler.
But instead of heading toward the usual resort strips, she veered left—down a narrower path she knew by memory. It led to the quieter edge of Sabang Beach, where the waves didn't care for crowds, and the sand remained untouched by too many feet.
Her hostel stood just where it always had. A modest two-storey home turned guesthouse, with weathered wooden rails and a hammock lazily swaying out front. There was a faded sign above the door, and an old labrador sleeping beneath it like he owned the place.
She parked under the same umbrella tree other homestayers always did.
Stepping out, she heard it—the ocean. A low, steady breath, like the world sighing in rhythm.
She didn't rush. Just walked toward the porch, sandals crunching on gravel, shoulders easing down with every step.
There were no greetings. No need.
This place remembered her even if the people didn't.
And the waves?
The waves had always waited.
Danielle stepped into the familiar foyer, and the scent hit her first—liniment, sea breeze, and the faint sweetness of ripe bananas. The floors still creaked the same, and the curtains still danced gently in the salt-kissed air. But what startled the space most was her.
From behind the counter, Nanay Estelle looked up, blinking twice as if she didn't trust her own eyes.
"Diyos ko…" she whispered, her voice catching as she stood straighter. "Danielle?"
Danielle offered a sheepish smile and a small wave. "Hi, Nay."
The old woman clutched her chest with both hands, as though anchoring herself. She stepped around the counter slowly, eyes scanning Danielle from head to toe like she was watching a ghost grow flesh.
Gone was the cheeky, round-faced girl who used to arrive with oversized backpacks and calloused fingers from commuting. No more was the quiet one who kept her head low and her answers shorter. The woman standing before her now was taller, leaner. She held herself with quiet command—like someone who'd walked through fire and learned how to breathe the smoke.
Her hair was longer now, darker. Her skin glowed not from products, but from peace hard-won. Her features—once soft and unsure—were sculpted, refined. A kind of understated elegance.
But her eyes… those warm amber eyes hadn't changed. Still sharp, still searching, still honest.
And the clothes—Danielle hadn't let success polish her into someone unrecognizable. Still in her high-waist denim shorts, a fitted tank top tucked under a crisp white polo. Her sandals, scuffed. Her nails, plain. Her vibe, unmistakably her.
"Aba'y… ibang iba ka na. Pero ikaw pa rin 'yan," Nanay Estelle finally said, voice trembling, eyes now misty. "Mas tahimik ka lang ngayon. Mas matatag."
Danielle lowered her head slightly, her smile turning soft. "Hindi ko alam kung matatag nga, Nay. Napagod lang siguro. Na-miss ko dito."
"Kaming lahat," Nanay Estelle said, reaching out to squeeze her hand. "Hindi ka namin nakalimutan, anak. Halika, may kwarto ka pa rin dito."
And just like that, no grand explanations needed.
Danielle was home.
After dropping her bag onto the familiar mattress and greeting the ocean breeze from her tiny screened window, Danielle didn't linger.
She swapped her sandals for flip-flops, grabbed a towel she wouldn't use, and wandered out barefoot into the February morning light. The sand welcomed her steps like an old friend—warm and dry near the entrance, cool and damp as she approached the shoreline.
The surf was alive.
Out east, the waves still rolled with purpose—bigger now, more confident, the way they always were this time of year. She saw them waiting: surfers bobbing gently beyond the break, eyes locked on the horizon, waiting for the perfect swell. There was something noble about that kind of patience—waiting not just for any wave, but the right one.
Like me, she mused. Except I didn't wait. I built the board I wanted and paddled out into storms I didn't fully understand.
She walked north, past a few sleepy cafés and dive hostels. Her feet found the boardwalk she used to sit by during college trips. Back then, it was where she'd eat cheap banh mi and listen to Bon Iver while her hair dried in the wind.
Now, she stood at the edge of it.
The sun kissed the back of her neck. The waves murmured below. And her gaze—steady, searching—held the line where sea met sky.
That thin, unwavering horizon.
She'd carved her life into one like it—flat from a distance, but full of movement once you dared to wade in. She thought of the circle that had begun to form around her like a shoreline of its own.
Nadia, who treated her like a mirror, not a threat.
May, who ran her world without demanding thanks.
Carmen, who saw her.
Caden, who—unexpectedly—trusted her with everything.
It's not just work anymore, she realized. It hasn't been for a while.
She exhaled and let the thought float away, like driftwood out to sea. The ocean didn't need to answer her doubts. It just had to remind her of who she was when no one was watching.
Strong.
Quiet.
Ready.
Danielle tugged her white polo tighter around her as a breeze pushed against her frame.
"Let the waves wait," she whispered.
"I'll come when I'm good and ready."