Estobaner didn't notice the sun slipping lower in the sky, painting the aisles of Comick Store Guam with a warm, golden glow. He was still crouched in his favorite corner, flipping pages, completely absorbed.
A soft cough echoed from the back of the aisle. "Uh… kid?" The clerk appeared, rubbing the back of his neck and glancing at the wall clock behind the counter.
Estobaner looked up, blinking. "Hm?"
The clerk's eyes widened. "It's… 5:55 PM. You've been here… since morning?"
Estobaner froze, brain catching up slowly. Morning. Morning? He had been here since morning. His pulse spiked.
"Six o'clock already?!" he muttered, scrambling to his feet, dropping a soft "oops" as he jostled a stack of comics. The clerk tried to hide a small chuckle.
"Oh… right," Estobaner whispered, glancing at the bag where the new manga had been. He hesitated for a moment, then carefully slid the volume back onto the shelf, making sure the cover faced out neatly. He didn't want to crease it—or get in trouble with the clerk for keeping it too long.
His pulse quickened. His grandparents were going to be not happy. Probably very not happy.
He glanced around the store one last time, taking in the quiet aisles and the faint scent of ink and paper mixed with the tropical evening air. It had been a perfect day—but now he had to leave.
"Uh… thanks," he mumbled to the clerk, who gave him a knowing smile. Estobaner ducked out of the store, heart racing, already thinking of the lecture waiting at home.
The streets of Tumon were calmer now, dotted with late-afternoon joggers and tourists snapping photos as the sun kissed the horizon. Estobaner's legs carried him briskly down familiar shortcuts—across the wooden bridge, past the empty bus stop, and along the narrow coconut-lined road—his mind spinning with excuses, apologies, and half-formed plans for next time.
The sun had begun to dip toward the horizon, painting Tumon Beach in warm streaks of orange and pink. Estobaner stood at the water's edge, toes digging into the sand, watching the tide stretch silver under the fading light.
The waves lapped gently against his ankles, carrying a faint tang of salt. The air had cooled slightly, and the breeze ruffled his hair and carried the distant calls of seabirds settling for the evening. The black sand he'd noticed earlier glinted faintly, still out of place, like tiny drops of ink scattered by some invisible hand.
He let out a soft sigh, watching the last traces of sunlight shimmer across the water. It was beautiful, yes—but then he glanced down at his phone. 5:58 PM soon it could be 6 pm, and his grandparents would be waiting. He'd been lost in the beach's details all day, following patterns and textures only he noticed.
He crouched down, running his fingers through the shallow water where the black sand had swirled. It was cold, almost unnaturally so, and the grains felt slightly rougher than normal sand. He shivered, a strange hum tickling the edges of his perception. Pulling back, he shook his hand, trying to convince himself it was nothing. "Probably normal," he muttered, though his gut told him otherwise.
With one last glance at the tide pools and driftwood, he straightened and began walking back toward town. Glancing at his phone again—5:59 PM—he felt a spike of panic. There was no way he could avoid a scolding, but maybe he could make it home before 6:05 PM, at least.
He broke into a sprint, the sand giving way under his sneakers as he raced along the quiet streets. His heart pounded with every step, a mix of adrenaline and dread. The town around him blurred slightly in the evening light, cafés and shops glowing softly, but he barely noticed. All that mattered was the clock—and the inevitable lecture waiting at home.
By the time his house came into view, his lungs were burning. He slowed to a stop at the gate, pressing a hand against his chest as he caught his breath. The porch light flicked on automatically, spilling a soft glow across the front steps.
For a moment, he just stood there—sweat clinging to his hair, the sea breeze still hanging on his clothes—trying to pretend time had somehow frozen. It hadn't. His phone screen still glared 6:04 PM at him.
"…Here we go," he muttered under his breath.
He pushed the gate open, climbed the steps, and reached for the door handle, finally stepping inside.
The door creaked softly as he stepped inside, the cool air of the house wrapping around him like a quiet reminder: he was late.
The first thing he saw wasn't his grandparents—but a lump of grey-white fur stretched out on the welcome mat. The cat cracked one lazy eye open, tail flicking.
Meowth.
Technically, he was his grandparents' cat, but no one really remembered when he first showed up. He'd just… always been here. Chunky, fluffy, and hopelessly spoiled, Meowth lived the kind of life most people dreamed of: endless naps, constant snacks, and zero responsibilities.
Estobaner let out a breath and crouched down, brushing his fingers over the soft fur. "Hey, Meowth," he whispered.
The cat answered with a slow blink and a soft, unimpressed mrrow, the kind that said, you're in trouble, but not my problem, before lazily flopping onto his side again.
Meowth gave a lazy flick of his tail as Estobaner straightened up. A soft clatter echoed from deeper inside the house—ceramic against wood.
"Estobaner Vas," came a voice, calm but carrying that very specific kind of weight only someone who'd raised you could master.
He froze for half a second.
The sound of soft slippers followed, and out from the kitchen stepped Felicia Vas, silver-streaked hair tied in a loose bun, wearing a floral apron that had probably seen more birthdays than he had. Her sharp eyes didn't miss a thing—not even the wind-tossed mess of his hair.
"You know what time it is, niño?" she asked, one brow already lifting.
Estobaner rubbed the back of his neck, his sneakers still damp with sand. Meowth let out a lazy mrrp at his feet, almost like he was judging him too.
"…I, uh, might've… gone out early," he admitted, his voice trailing off. "And… kinda lost track of time."
Felicia didn't say anything right away. She just stood there with that look—half patient, half I told you so—the one that made lying pointless.
"I'm sorry, abuela," he added more softly, the word slipping out like a reflex. "I didn't mean to stay out that long."
Felicia crossed her arms, her brow lowering just slightly—not in anger, but in that way only grandmothers could manage to make guilt sting without raising their voice.
"You didn't even eat before leaving," she said. "Do you know what time it was when I looked at the kitchen table? Empty. Not even a crumb. You think skipping meals makes you faster?"
Estobaner stayed quiet, shifting his weight like a kid who'd already accepted defeat. There was no point in arguing. She wasn't mad—just worried in that quiet, steady way that always hit deeper than yelling.
After a moment, Felicia let out a small sigh, the tension in her voice softening. "Go to the kitchen. Your grandpa's still eating what's left of lunch."
He blinked. "Lunch? It's almost night."
She shook her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Nomad eats when Nomad eats. Now go. Before he finishes the good parts."
Estobaner stepped into the kitchen. Nomad Vas sat at the old wooden table, still chewing slowly, a plate of reheated rice and fried fish in front of him. The evening light slanted through the window, painting everything gold.
"You're late," Nomad said without looking up, voice deep and steady. "Sun goes down. Boy should already be home."
Estobaner slipped into the seat across from him. "Yeah… sorry."
Nomad finally glanced up, one eyebrow lifting. "Mm. That's what the Americans always say too. 'Sorry.' When they're already standing on your land."
Estobaner gave a small, sheepish laugh. He'd heard lines like that from his grandfather before—not angry, just… old. Like someone talking about a wound that never fully closed.
Estobaner slid into the chair across from Nomad Vas, the familiar creak of the old wooden floor beneath him. The smell of fried fish and rice lingered in the air, seasoned with the sharp tang of soy sauce. Meowth waddled in behind him, plopping down near Nomad's feet like a small, furry shadow.
Nomad poked his fork into the fish, glancing up with that calm, steady look that said he'd been waiting. "So, niño," he rumbled, "what kind of trouble did you find today?"
Estobaner scratched the back of his neck, a sheepish grin creeping onto his face. "I, uh… might've spent all morning at the beach. Then Comic Book Guam got the new chapter of One peice."
Nomad snorted softly. "Ah. So you were reading pictures while the world worked, huh?"
"They're not just pictures," Estobaner said quickly, half-defensive, half-laughing. "There's plot. Depth. Emotional weight."
Nomad raised an eyebrow as he chewed slowly. "Emotional weight," he repeated like he was tasting the words themselves. "When I was your age, I was carrying sacks of fish heavier than your emotional weight."
Estobaner laughed, nearly choking on his water. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Grandpa the great fisherman, conqueror of tuna."
Nomad's mouth twitched—almost a smile. "Damn right. And yet, you live to read stories instead of making them."
"Hey, someone's gotta be the reader," Estobaner shot back, leaning on the table.
Felicia's voice floated in from the living room, light but firm: "And someone's gotta clean the dishes tonight, niño."
Estobaner groaned, and Nomad chuckled low in his chest, tapping his fork on the plate like a drumbeat.
Estobaner had just finished drying the last plate when a flicker of light caught his eye. The old television in the living room buzzed to life—Grandma Felicia's evening habit. Meowth was curled up on the couch, tail swishing lazily as the familiar local news jingle played through the static.
"…this just in," the anchor's voice cut through the cozy quiet of the house. "Authorities have confirmed a shark attack earlier this evening off Tumon Beach. A tourist was injured but has been safely taken to Guam Memorial Hospital. The beach is now temporarily closed."
Estobaner froze, the towel still in his hand.
Tumon Beach.
That was where he'd been just this morning.
The newscaster continued, calm but firm. "Witnesses reported unusual water movement before the attack, describing it as—quote—'black ripples.'"
His stomach tightened. He glanced at his grandparents, but Felicia only frowned at the screen, and Nomad muttered something about "tourists not knowing how to swim."
No one seemed to connect it to anything bigger. But Estobaner's mind raced back to that moment—the ink-like swirl at his ankles. The chill.
It wasn't just his imagination.
He slowly sat down on the edge of the couch, Meowth pressing lazily against his leg, completely unaware of the chill crawling up his spine.
Whatever he'd felt in the water that morning…
It wasn't just his imagination.