She walked a little faster, leading him toward the Plaza de Roma.
She stopped before the Manila Cathedral, its tall façade towering proudly against the sky. "Here," she said, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm again, "do you know how many times this cathedral has been rebuilt? Typhoons, earthquakes, even cannon fire could not erase it. They say it is the heart of the city."
Andres folded his hands neatly behind his back, his eyes not on the cathedral but on the girl in front of him. "I think the heart of the city has found a fine guide today."
Sarah blinked, then laughed softly, turning her face away to hide her embarrassment. "You have a way of speaking that makes it difficult to tell if you are serious, Andres."
"I am always serious," he replied evenly, though the faint tug of a smile betrayed him.
They continued down the Calle Real, where carriages rattled past ornate Spanish houses with carved wooden windows. Sarah pointed at one. "That one belonged to a governor who loved to host grand balls. My nursemaid used to tell me stories of how the music echoed down the street even past midnight. I used to imagine the dresses, the lights, the laughter…" Her voice trailed with a dreamy sigh before she glanced quickly at Andres, realizing how much she had revealed. "Ah—but I suppose I speak too much."
"Not at all," Andres said gently. "Your words make the city come alive."
Her cheeks pinked again. She pressed a hand against her lips to hide her smile and hurried on.
They reached the Puerta Real, one of the southern gates. Sarah leaned on the stone balustrade, her shawl fluttering as the breeze carried the faint scent of the Pasig River. "And here," she said, "was once where soldiers marched out to meet the British. They failed, of course, but the walls remained. Do you see? Even stone remembers."
Andres studied her profile in the sunlight—the curve of her cheek, the brightness in her eyes. He could not help but think she carried the city's memory more vividly than the stones themselves. Even though he was a Filipino from his previous life, he must admit, he doesn't have much knowledge regarding this place.
As noon approached, Sarah pressed a hand lightly against her stomach with a shy laugh. "I fear all this walking has betrayed me. I'm quite hungry."
Andres seized the moment. "Then allow me to invite you. There is a place nearby—a restaurant where officers and officials dine."
Her eyes widened slightly, her lips parting in surprise. "You mean… together?"
"Yes," he said simply.
She hesitated only a moment before nodding. "Then… I would be honored."
They soon found themselves seated at a polished wooden table inside La Fonda de la Compañía, one of the most respected restaurants within the walls. Chandeliers hung above, silverware gleamed on the tables, and the murmur of merchants and officers filled the air.
Andres pulled out a chair for her, and Sarah sat with practiced grace, though her fingers fussed nervously with her shawl.
When the waiter came, he handed him the menu.
Andres glanced at the neatly written menu, his brow lifting slightly at the prices. The dishes were indeed expensive, fit for governors, officers, and wealthy merchants. Still, his face betrayed nothing as he set it down with calm confidence.
He turned the menu toward Sarah. "Please, Señorita. Choose what you like."
Sarah accepted it with both hands, her bright eyes scanning the list. But her expression slowly shifted—her lips pressing together, her brows dipping slightly. She lingered far too long on the prices, and when she finally looked up, she wore a small, polite smile.
"These are…" she hesitated, lowering her voice, "…quite costly, Andres. Perhaps something light will do. A bowl of soup, maybe. Nothing more."
Andres leaned slightly closer across the table, his tone firm but warm. "Do not trouble yourself over the cost. I invited you. That makes it my responsibility."
Her fingers tightened around the edge of the menu. "Still… I do not wish to seem wasteful."
Andres's gaze softened. He could see the sincerity in her words—her modesty, her restraint, the way she carried herself even when surrounded by wealth. He shook his head lightly.
"Ordering soup in a place like this would be the waste. Choose a proper meal, Señorita. You deserve no less."
Sarah blinked at him, caught off guard. Her lips parted as if to protest again, but under the weight of his steady gaze, her resolve faltered. Her cheeks warmed, and after a pause, she let out a shy breath.
"Then… perhaps the roasted chicken with herbs. If you truly insist."
Andres gave a small nod of approval. "Better." He signaled the waiter and placed the order firmly: the roasted chicken for her, the seared beef with wine sauce for himself, and a bottle of fine red to share.
When the waiter left, silence lingered briefly. Sarah busied herself by smoothing the folds of her shawl, her eyes flicking anywhere but at him—over the polished chandeliers, the carved pillars, the crowd of finely dressed diners.
But inevitably, her gaze returned to him. She caught him watching her, steady and unflinching, his dark eyes fixed as though she were the only person in the room.
Her breath caught. A soft, embarrassed laugh escaped her lips as she tucked a strand of platinum hair behind her ear.
"You… you stare too much, Andres."
"Perhaps," he admitted calmly. "But you make it difficult to look elsewhere."
Her cheeks flamed at his boldness. For a moment, she lowered her gaze to the table, then lifted it again—blue eyes meeting his directly. And when she smiled, it was not the polite curve of her lips she wore in front of others, but something gentler, warmer, almost radiant.
Andres's chest tightened. He had lived over fifty years once before, carrying the weariness of another life. Yet here, reborn in this young body, sitting across from this bright, kind, and beautiful girl, he felt something he thought long gone—a stirring of youth, of possibility, of simple joy.
Their orders arrived soon after. The roasted chicken was set before Sarah, golden and glistening, the aroma of herbs rising with the steam. Andres's seared beef came next, resting in a dark wine sauce.
Between them, the waiter placed a bottle of red, its cork freshly pulled.
For a time, they ate quietly. Silverware chimed gently against porcelain plates, mingling with the low hum of conversations from other tables. Sarah cut her chicken carefully, her movements delicate, almost practiced, as though she wished to appear perfectly composed. Yet every now and then, she would sneak a glance at Andres—only to find him already watching.
She would look down quickly, cheeks warming, and return to her meal with an embarrassed little smile.
Andres himself ate steadily, savoring each bite without rush. He said little, but in truth, he was not thinking much of the food. He was thinking of her—the way her hair caught the light from the chandeliers, the soft color in her cheeks when she smiled, the careful way she tried not to meet his gaze and yet always failed.
By the time their plates were cleared, Sarah leaned back slightly, her hands folding neatly in her lap. "It was… delicious," she said softly, almost shyly.
Andres inclined his head. "I am glad."
When the waiter returned, Andres placed a few silver coins onto the tray without hesitation. Sarah's eyes widened faintly at the sight of the sum, but she held her tongue this time, only bowing her head slightly in quiet gratitude.
They stepped out of La Fonda together. The midday sun had softened, the light spilling gently over the cobbled streets of Intramuros. For a moment, they lingered by the door, neither quite wishing to break the moment.
At last, Andres cleared his throat softly. "I must return to my duties at the fort."
Sarah's lips curved faintly, though her eyes carried a flicker of disappointment. "Of course. You are a soldier, after all."
He glanced at the carriages lined along the street, their drivers waiting lazily under the shade of the stone walls. Turning back to her, he spoke.
"But I cannot allow you to return home alone. Permit me."
She blinked, surprised, before smiling gently. "You're very proper, Andres."
"Not proper," he corrected evenly. "Responsible."
He hailed a carriage with a wave, and one pulled up promptly. As the driver hopped down to open the door, Andres guided Sarah forward with a respectful distance, offering his hand lightly. She placed her fingers on his for the briefest moment, stepping inside with elegance.
As she settled onto the cushioned seat, Andres asked, "Your home—where shall I direct the driver?"
"On Calle Cabildo," she answered. "The large white house with iron balconies. You will not miss it."
Andres nodded and gave the instruction. After that, he also hopped inside and closed the door.
Twenty minutes later, they arrived.
It was indeed a grand house. Two stories tall, its whitewashed walls trimmed with carved stone, the balconies decorated with vines of bougainvillea. A home fit for merchants who had made their place among the elite of Manila.
The carriage halted. Andres guided her down and they were now standing in front of another.
"Thank you, Andres," she said softly. "For the walk. And the meal. And… for today."
"It would honor me to see you again."
Her lips parted, then curved into a smile. "Then you shall."