Emma zipped up the last of her bags, the whir of the zipper loud in the stillness. The house was emptier now than when she had arrived. Her grandmother's clothes were folded neatly into boxes, her rosary tucked carefully into a drawer for the cousins, the kitchen shelves wiped clean.
She paused by the window, staring at the coconut trees swaying in the distance. For a moment, she thought of the dream—the kabalan whose face she could not see, the voice whispering Don't get lost.
It had been three days since the ambulance incident. Three days since Adrian had thrown her the keys and disappeared. In those three days, Monette was reported stable, her blood pressure controlled. Emma had gone to the barangay hall, met Kap, and been surprised by Ronald's offer. She had thought about it, yes—but never seriously.
Three days. And not once had she seen Adrian again.
She told herself it was for the best.
But in those same three nights, when the town lay still and the houses were dark, Adrian had been there.
He stood at the edge of the clearing, the hut where she slept bathed in silver moonlight. His hooves left no mark on the earth as he approached. The window was open a crack—summer heat pressed thick into the walls.
Inside, Emma lay curled on the narrow bed, hair spilled across the pillow, her breathing even and soft.
Adrian watched from the shadows, chest tight. Not with hunger, not with malice, but with the ache of two decades of longing.
He did not step inside. He never would. That was not his place.
But he whispered her name once, so softly the crickets nearly swallowed it.
"Emma."
She stirred faintly, sighing in her sleep, but did not wake.
He smiled sadly. If Bathala willed her to remember, she would. If not, he would accept it.
He turned back into the trees, the night swallowing him whole.
Now, on the fourth morning, Emma loaded her suitcase into her car. The engine hummed to life, steady and reliable. She stood for a moment on the veranda, gazing at the little hut.
I did what I came to do, she told herself again. I said goodbye.
As she drove down the narrow street, neighbors waved.
"Ingat po, doktora!" ("Take care, doc!")
"Salamat po sa tulong kay Monette!" ("Thank you for helping Monette!")
She smiled, waved back, but didn't slow down.
The drive stretched long and steady—six hours of highway between Camarines Norte and Manila. Her hands gripped the wheel, but her mind wandered.
Past the public market, she remembered buying pandesal at Julie's.
Past the church, she thought of her grandmother, prayers echoing in the rafters.
Past the ridge where the forest pressed close, her stomach knotted unexpectedly.
She saw Adrian's reflection in the ambulance mirror. His voice. His eyes. The way he always appeared at the right time.
She shook her head firmly. "Coincidences," she muttered. "That's all."
At midday, she pulled over at a roadside carinderia. A plate of tapsilog, a glass of cold buko juice. She ate quickly, ignoring the TV blasting noon-time shows. The taste was simple, comforting, like every provincial meal she had grown up with.
Back in the car, the hum of the tires on asphalt lulled her thoughts. She thought about Ronald again, his offer lingering. We need more doctors like you. But St. Luke's was her world—prestige, resources, everything she had worked for. Could she trade that for a provincial hospital? For a salary that could never match?
No.
And yet… Panganiban pulled at her. Like a thread knotted deep inside her chest.
By dusk, she merged onto the expressway. Headlights flared, buses thundered past, the sky painted itself in streaks of orange and violet. Manila was still hours away, but already its hum beckoned.
In Panganiban, at the forest's edge, Adrian stood once more at the ridge. From there, he could see the distant glow of headlights tracing the highway. He knew which car was hers. He had known since she turned the ignition that morning.
Bayani shifted beside him. "She leaves."
Luntian bowed his head. "Perhaps Bathala has chosen otherwise."
Pilat said nothing, only stared with scarred eyes at the horizon.
Adrian exhaled, shoulders heavy. "If it is Bathala's will, so be it. My life is not my own. It belongs to the forest, to balance, to my people."
But even as he said it, his heart burned with a different truth.
She was gone.
Yet the forest whispered otherwise.
And in her bag, tucked between her clothes, the little compass still waited.