Sebastian's earliest memories of life were never simple snapshots — they were entire films, replayed with startling clarity. By the time he was three, his parents already whispered about how strangely observant he was. While other toddlers babbled incoherently, Sebastian listened, watched, and spoke with a measured calm that unsettled adults.
He was the firstborn, the one Maria had screamed for hours to bring into the world, and because of that, she expected him to carry a certain pride, a certain strength. Yet what she received was a boy who sometimes seemed too old for his small body, too quiet for a child.
At three, when most children were still chasing after toys, Sebastian was already chasing after patterns. He arranged his blocks not into castles but into neat grids, muttering to himself about "systems" and "foundations." When Maria asked what he was building, he simply replied, "Something stable. Something that won't fall if the wind blows."
She blinked, laughed nervously, and told herself he was just imaginative. But deep down, she wondered what kind of child she had given birth to.
Life at home was never peaceful for long. Maria had a temper that could ignite over the smallest things, and Roberto was often absent, physically or emotionally. He worked long shifts and came home exhausted, collapsing onto the couch with promises that "this weekend" he'd fix whatever needed fixing.
One humid evening, Maria's voice echoed through the house again. "Roberto! You said you'd repair the roof last week! Lagi ka na lang may dahilan!" ("You always have an excuse!")
Roberto sighed heavily, dropping his bag onto the table. "Maria, I'm working every day. I'm tired. I'll do it. Just give me time."
Sebastian sat quietly at the dining table, pretending to read one of the old textbooks Maria had kept from school. His little sister Isabel, already beginning to show signs of vanity at seven, fiddled with a scarf she had begged from their mother. Miguel, the youngest at three, retreated into his corner, clutching a stuffed toy as though it would shield him from the tension.
The shouting match swelled, then deflated. Maria stormed into their bedroom, slamming the door. Roberto groaned and slouched onto a chair, rubbing his face.
It was Sebastian who finally broke the silence. "Papa," he asked softly, "why do you always promise things you can't finish?"
Roberto stared at him, startled. "What kind of question is that?"
"I just want to understand," Sebastian said, voice unnervingly calm for a child.
Roberto hesitated, then muttered, "Because… sometimes promises are all I have. I don't want you to think I'm useless."
Sebastian's small brow furrowed. "But you're not useless. You work every day. That's not useless. You just… shouldn't say yes when you can't do it yet."
Roberto chuckled weakly, shaking his head. "You talk like an old man, Sebas."
From behind the bedroom door, Maria heard every word. Her anger softened, though she didn't admit it.
Sebastian wasn't trying to be wise — he simply couldn't stop himself from analyzing. Promises, fights, emotions — he dissected them the way other children dissected insects. It was his nature now.
By four, he began inventing games that looked nothing like games. With chalk on the pavement, he sketched grids and boxes, lining bottle caps along them like merchandise. "This is a store," he explained to his cousin one afternoon.
"But they're just tansan (bottle caps)," the cousin protested.
"Not yet," Sebastian replied seriously. "But if we save, we can sell. If we sell, we can buy more. Then maybe… we won't fight about money anymore."
To the other children, it was play. To Sebastian, it was practice.
Maria found them one day, a cluster of neighborhood kids exchanging stones and leaves for Sebastian's bottle caps while he kept a meticulous tally with chalk. She shook her head, muttering, "Anak ko talaga… hindi marunong maging bata." ("My child… he doesn't know how to be a kid.")
Later, when Roberto came home, she relayed the story. He only laughed. "Maybe he'll be the first businessman in the family. Better than being like me."
Maria rolled her eyes, but warmth bloomed quietly in her chest.
Sebastian's curiosity extended beyond pretend businesses. On his fourth birthday, Roberto gifted him a plastic robot toy. By the next morning, Maria found it in pieces.
"Sebastian Torres!" she shouted, hands on her hips. "Why did you break your toy?"
"I didn't break it," Sebastian replied calmly. "I wanted to see how it moves. Look, the legs are connected here… and the spring makes it jump."
Maria sighed in exasperation. Roberto crouched down beside him, inspecting the parts. "He's not wrong. Maybe he'll be an engineer."
Somehow, Sebastian put the robot back together without instructions. It jumped again, perfectly functional. Roberto whistled softly. "Son, you're scaring your Mama."
Books soon became his companions. Their home only had a handful — a Bible, some old magazines, a couple of textbooks — but he devoured them all. "Why do you read so much?" Maria asked one evening, watching him trace the words with his finger.
"Because books don't shout," Sebastian answered simply.
The remark cut deep. Maria didn't reply, only borrowed more books from a neighbor the next day.
By five, kindergarten began. Maria insisted despite tight finances. "He's too smart to stay home," she told Roberto. "Sayang ang utak niya." ("His mind would go to waste.")
On his first day, while his classmates shrieked and played, Sebastian sat quietly at the back, carefully writing his name in neat letters: Sebastian Torres.
The teacher's eyebrows shot up. "Did your parents teach you?"
"No," Sebastian said. "I copied from the Bible."
The teacher wrote a note to herself: This boy is different.
Different wasn't always good. His classmates sometimes avoided him, whispering that he was weird. He didn't laugh at silly jokes, asked too many questions.
"Why is the sky blue?" he once asked.
The teacher, flustered, replied, "Because… God made it that way."
"That's not an explanation," Sebastian countered.
The children laughed. The teacher flushed. That evening, Maria scolded him after receiving a call. "You can't talk like that, Sebas. People will think you're disrespectful."
"I wasn't trying to be rude," he insisted. "I just wanted to know."
Maria rubbed her temples. Raising him was like holding fragile glass — brilliant, but sharp.
At home, his siblings were already becoming their own people. Isabel, with her scarves and poses, dreamed of escaping to the city. Miguel, delicate and cheerful, twirled with those same scarves, unconcerned with the whispers of bakla (gay) from neighbors.
Maria defended him fiercely. Sebastian only thought: So what if he is? He's still Miguel. Still my brother.
Storms came and went, inside the house and outside. One night, when a blackout left the neighborhood in darkness, Maria lit a candle while Roberto cursed about not buying batteries.
Sebastian sat watching the flame. "Electricity is just controlled lightning," he whispered. "If we could store lightning, we wouldn't need to be afraid of the dark."
Maria shivered. "Don't say creepy things like that, anak (child)."
Sebastian only smiled faintly.
At five years old, he was not planning empires yet, nor love stories. But the seeds had been planted — the pretend storefronts, the tinkering, the hunger for books, the quiet resolve to mend what felt broken in his family.
And though the world saw only a boy chalking nonsense on the pavement, Sebastian Torres knew, with a clarity that belonged to someone much older:
This life will not be wasted.