("Some people inherit wealth. Others inherit wounds.")
The sound of the rain came first — soft, steady, unrelenting.
Nox sat by the window, watching droplets race down the cracked glass. His notebook lay open, but he wasn't studying. The semester had ended. Grades were out. And somehow, he'd passed everything.
Not high grades, not honors — just survival.
But for someone like him, survival was already a kind of miracle.
He smiled faintly, tracing the edge of the paper with his thumb. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to imagine next year — new subjects, new professors, maybe even a scholarship if he worked harder.
But the rain outside carried memories he could never escape.
---
He remembered the shouting first.
Not the words — just the sound of his parents' voices tearing through their old house back in Ormoc.
He was eleven. Flora was crying in the corner. Cha tried to cover Mae's ears.
And his father — drunk, tired, angry — was packing a small bag.
His mother stood by the door, eyes red, but chin high, as if pride could erase guilt.
That was the night he learned what silence could do — how it could swallow entire families whole.
A week later, his mother left too. No letter. No call. Just gone.
After that, the house stopped being a home.
He didn't hate them. Not anymore.
He just… stopped expecting people to stay.
That's why he didn't cry when Shyn left.
He'd learned early that love, like money, runs out.
---
His phone buzzed. An unknown number.
When he answered, a familiar voice spoke — distant, hesitant.
"Nox? Anak?" (Son?)
It was his father.
"Pa," he said flatly.
"I heard you're in Cebu now. Studying?"
"Yes."
"That's… good. Study hard. Don't end up like me."
A pause. Only the hum of weak signal and awkward distance between them.
"You doing okay there?" his father asked.
Nox swallowed. "Yeah. We're managing."
"That's good. I wish I could send something, but—"
"It's fine, Pa."
The line went quiet for a moment, then clicked dead.
He didn't call back.
He placed the phone down beside his notes, eyes blank.
Conversations like that didn't hurt anymore — they just left him tired.
End of First Year
A week later, results were posted on the bulletin board at the University of the Visayas.
Nox stood in the crowd of students, eyes scanning the list.
There it was.
Ando, Nox D. — PASSED.
He let out a small laugh — quiet, almost disbelieving. The noise of the students around him blurred into background static.
For a few seconds, he wasn't poor. He wasn't tired. He wasn't left behind.
He was enough.
That night, he treated himself to a small bowl of lugaw and a boiled egg — his version of a celebration.
Flora smiled when she saw him eating. "You did it, Nox."
He nodded. "Yeah. Finally."
He didn't know it yet, but this would be the last meal that tasted like relief.
It happened two nights later.
Flora came home late, shoulders slumped, uniform soaked from rain.
She didn't say anything at first — just sat at the small table, staring at nothing.
Nox sensed it immediately. "Ate?"
She exhaled shakily. "May problema tayo." (We have a problem.)
He straightened. "Ano?"
"I lost my job."
The words hit like a quiet explosion.
She continued, voice breaking slightly. "The company downsized. They said my position was redundant. I tried talking to them—"
Her throat tightened. "The tuition money for next year… it's gone, Nox."
He froze. "But… I can look for part-time work. I can—"
Flora shook her head. "Rent's due next week. Mae's school fees. Cha's internship. There's nothing left. You'll have to stop for now."
"Stop?" His voice was barely a whisper.
She nodded, eyes red. "Just one year. We'll figure something out."
Nox looked down, hands gripping the table's edge.
He wanted to shout, to curse the universe, to cry. But all that came out was a long, hollow breath.
That night, the sisters gathered in the cramped kitchen.
Cha said nothing — just placed a hand on his shoulder. Mae looked confused, too young to understand why her brother's dreams suddenly had to pause.
Flora spoke softly, "You've done enough, Nox. We'll make it up to you."
He nodded, not trusting his voice.
In his head, the walls of his plans collapsed — second year, graduation, job applications, the promise he made to himself that he wouldn't end up stuck like his parents.
All of it — gone with a few sentences.
When the discussion ended, he excused himself quietly and returned to his mat in Cha's room.
He lay there in the dark, eyes open, heart heavy.
Through the thin window, the city glowed — distant lights, like dreams meant for someone else.
He thought about his father's voice, his mother's absence, Shyn's messages, the grades he'd fought for, the endless sacrifices — and how easily everything slipped away.
Flora was crying softly in the other room. He could hear it through the thin wall.
He wanted to comfort her, to say it was okay, that he'd endure again.
But his throat refused to move.
Instead, he whispered to himself,
"It's fine. I'm used to it."
The words dissolved into the night.
He stared at the ceiling, the hum of the electric fan mixing with the faint noise of the city outside.
The sound grew quieter. The air grew colder.
Until only silence remained — long, heavy, and waiting.