Celine wasn't sure what startled her more: waking up in a room that smelled faintly of saltwater and woven rattan, or the sight of six heads staring at her like she was an exhibit in a museum.
She had barely opened her eyes when Kaia shrieked, "She's awake!" and nearly fell off the chair she was squatting on.
Celine sat up so fast her head spun. "Why—why are you all here?"
"Lola Marga made us," Niko replied, shrugging like it was the most normal thing in the world. "She said, watch over my apo."
"And we take that job seriously," Mateo added, clearly lying as he juggled two mangoes like he was in a circus.
Celine blinked. "You broke into my room."
"We didn't break in," Solana said calmly from where she leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. Her long blonde hair caught the morning light, making her look like she had walked straight out of a summer magazine. "We walked in. Big difference."
Elio, combing his fingers through his perfectly styled golden hair, added with unnecessary confidence, "You're welcome, by the way. It's an honor to have Kahelea's golden squad guarding you."
"No one calls us that," Kai muttered.
"They should," Elio insisted. "It has a ring to it."
Celine sighed, pulling the blanket tighter around her. "You people are too much for this early."
"You'll get used to it," Solana said, her smirk tugging at one side of her lips. "Everyone does."
⸻
Breakfast was chaos.
Lola Marga laid out a spread of garlic rice, fried fish, mangoes, and steaming tsokolate. Celine tried to quietly eat, but there was no such thing as quiet in this household.
Mateo and Niko argued over who could eat more. Kaia and Kai were busy setting up a prank involving chili sauce and Elio's plate. Solana helped Lola in the kitchen, her movements smooth and practiced, like she'd been doing it forever.
"You're not eating much," Lola Marga observed, giving Celine a knowing look. "Food here tastes different, hm?"
Celine smiled faintly. "It's good… just new."
"She's probably scared we poisoned her," Mateo teased.
Niko leaned across the table. "We don't bite. Well, Kaia does, but only when she's cranky."
Kaia kicked his shin under the table.
By the time breakfast ended, Elio was dramatically fanning his mouth from the twins' chili prank, Solana was rolling her eyes but hiding a smile, and Celine was quietly amused despite herself.
After a few bites, Celine excused herself, feeling the need for a moment of quiet. She wandered to the veranda, where the sea stretched endlessly before her, waves shimmering under the morning sun. The chaotic laughter and squabbles of the teens faded into the background as she sank into a bamboo chair.
The air smelled of salt and blooming kalachuchi. Celine closed her eyes briefly, letting the breeze brush against her face. For once, it was just her and the sound of the waves.
"Apo…"
She turned to see Lola Marga approaching, carrying two mugs of steaming tsokolate. Her steps were slow but steady, her smile the same as Celine remembered.
"May I join you?"
Celine nodded, and Lola settled beside her, placing one mug in her hands. The warmth seeped into Celine's palms, grounding her.
"It feels like yesterday you were running around our little apartment," Lola said with a chuckle. "Always asking for merienda even after I told you dinner was almost ready."
Celine smiled faintly. "You always gave in anyway. Cheese pan de sal with condensed milk."
"And banana cue on Fridays," Lola added, her eyes twinkling. "We would eat while watching those silly teleseryes you pretended not to like."
"I did like them," Celine admitted, a small laugh escaping her. "Even if I made fun of the crying scenes."
They fell into an easy rhythm of remembering—afternoons at the park, trips to the wet market, bedtime stories told in Lola's calm voice. With each memory, some of the heaviness inside Celine seemed to loosen.
"You know," Lola said after a pause, her tone soft, "children grow, but the heart of who they are never disappears. I still see that lively girl who loved to laugh. Even if life made you quieter… she's still there."
Celine sipped her drink, looking at the horizon. She didn't answer, but Lola's words stirred something inside her, like a small flame flickering back to life.
"You don't need to tell me anything now, apo," Lola continued, reaching over to pat her hand. "Just remember—life is not a race. It's not about being first, or best. It's about finding your own rhythm. The waves out there?" She nodded toward the sea. "They don't rush. They just keep moving, steady and sure. So can you."
Celine pressed her lips together, emotion swelling in her chest. She leaned lightly against her grandmother's shoulder, her voice barely above a whisper. "I missed you, Lola."
"I missed you too, anak," Lola replied, wrapping an arm around her. "But you're here now. And that's what matters."
They sat quietly, the sound of the waves filling the silence between them. Celine didn't share everything—not yet. But for the first time in years, she felt safe enough not to.
From the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of blonde hair by the doorway—Solana, lingering for a moment before slipping away, as if she had accidentally intruded. Celine's heart gave a small, inexplicable tug, but she said nothing.
For now, the morning belonged to her and Lola.
——————
Celine left the veranda quietly, letting the laughter and chatter of the others fade behind her. She felt the pull of the sea—its rhythmic waves a steady pulse she could lean on. The sand was cool beneath her feet, the horizon endless and untouched, and for the first time that morning, she felt entirely alone… in the best possible way.
She walked slowly along the shore, letting the water lap at her ankles, eyes tracing the patterns of sunlight dancing on the waves. For a moment, it felt like the world expected nothing from her.
A soft shuffle of footsteps on sand made her pause.
"You're avoiding the chaos," a familiar voice said.
Celine turned to see Solana a few feet behind, her hands tucked casually into her shorts' pockets. Her gaze was curious, careful, like she was studying something delicate.
"I… needed some air," Celine admitted. "It's… a lot, all of them."
Solana stepped closer, her expression amused. "Yeah, they're a lot. I usually end up being the referee, or the one who cleans up the disasters. Someone has to keep the peace."
Celine smiled faintly. "I can see that."
They began walking side by side along the waterline, the silence surprisingly comfortable. Solana didn't pry, didn't chatter needlessly—her presence alone felt grounding, like a shadow that didn't weigh her down.
After a few beats, Solana tilted her head toward her. "You're not what they think you are."
Celine frowned slightly. "And what's that supposed to mean?"
"That you're quiet. Gloomy. Just… passing through." Solana's eyes flicked toward her, a playful smirk softening the words. "You're more than that. I can tell."
Celine's chest tightened, uncertain of what to say.
Solana bent, scooping up a flat stone and skipping it across the surface. "You don't have to tell me your secrets. But… I know what it's like, being underestimated. Keeping parts of yourself hidden. Feeling like no one's watching—at least, not the way you want them to."
Something in Celine's throat caught. She didn't answer, just let the waves fill the silence for her.
They walked further, steps in rhythm with the tide. Celine glanced at Solana, wanting to ask how she knew these things—why she sounded like she understood—but before she could speak, a voice carried across the sand.
"Solana!" Lola Marga's call echoed from the house.
Solana sighed, looking over her shoulder. "Duty calls." She gave Celine a half-smile, soft but fleeting. "Don't wander too far, city girl."
Then she jogged back toward the house, leaving Celine with the surf and her thoughts.
The tide was low, and the sea whispered softly against the shore. Celine sat on the damp sand with her knees tucked to her chest, the salty wind tugging at her hair. Around her, Kahelea buzzed faintly with life—distant laughter from the house, a dog barking somewhere down the road, the rhythmic hammer of Tata Berto on a rooftop—but here, by the water, it was only her and the waves.
She closed her eyes, breathing in the briny air. Something about the way the sea stretched endlessly before her—vast, untamed, and free—pulled at a memory she had locked away for too long.
And just like that, she was ten again.
⸻
Back then, her world smelled not of the sea, but of freshly brewed coffee and the faint perfume of sampaguita that always clung to Lola Marga's clothes. The city was loud and busy, her parents busier still, but Lola had been her constant, her compass.
Celine remembered afternoons curled up beside her on the couch, reading fairy tales aloud while Lola corrected her pronunciation gently, never impatient, always encouraging. When she stumbled over words, Lola would laugh softly and say, "Apo, even if you trip, the story still goes on. So do you."
Other days, they would water Lola's little balcony garden together, her small hands clutching the hose while her grandmother directed, "Not too much, or the roots will drown." And when she got drenched instead of the plants, Lola would clap her hands in delight and say, "Well, at least one of you will grow tall."
There had been harder moments too.
She could still hear the sharp scolding of her teachers, telling her she was too talkative, too restless, too much. She came home once with tear-stained cheeks and a note pinned to her uniform. Lola hadn't scolded. Instead, she pulled Celine into her arms and whispered, "Don't let them dim your spark. Curiosity is a blessing, not a crime."
When her parents returned home and saw the note, they frowned, muttering about discipline and obedience. But Lola stood her ground. "She is a child, not a machine. Let her be curious."
Even in small troubles, Lola defended her. Like the time Celine broke her father's imported vase chasing after a ball in the sala. Her parents were furious—voices raised, the word careless thrown like an insult. But Lola had stepped in calmly: "It's only a vase. Better that than her spirit breaking under fear." Later, Lola helped her glue the pieces together, turning it into a lopsided flower pot. "See? Even broken things can bloom again."
For a time, those words were enough.
But then Lola had to leave.
Her grandmother's health was faltering, and she said the city was too fast, too harsh. Kahelea was where she belonged. Celine remembered clutching her hand, begging her not to go, her young voice breaking: "Don't leave me. Please, don't leave me too."
Lola had smiled sadly, kissing her forehead. "I'll always be with you, apo. Even if you don't see me, you'll feel me."
But when the taxi drove away, Celine had felt something inside her close.
⸻
The sound of a gull pulled her back to the present.
Celine blinked, the waves before her suddenly sharper, the horizon clearer. Her heart ached with the heaviness of the memories, but also with something else—a small flicker of warmth. Because no matter how much pain lingered, Lola Marga's voice remained, steady and unwavering: "You will have your own crown."
She dug her toes into the sand, letting the water wash over them, as if the sea itself was reminding her she could still start again.
For the first time in years, Celine let herself whisper into the open air, almost like a promise: "I'll try, Lola."
And the waves, faithful and constant, carried her words back to shore.