Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 1

She nodded, her throat thick. “It’ll do,” she whispered, more to herself than him.

They spent the next hour dusting off forgotten furniture, wooden chairs that creaked with age, shelves that sighed under the weight of old books, and cabinets that smelled of camphor and time. Her room was just to the right of the staircase, with a slanted ceiling and windows that opened wide to let the morning in. The mattress was firm, the curtains yellow and floral, the air rich with the scent of floor wax and new beginnings.

She placed her bag down and sat on the edge of her bed. Through the window, she could see the silhouettes of palm trees swaying gently, the sky now blushing pink with the last light of the day.

Later, she came downstairs and saw her father in the living room, holding a framed photograph in his hands. He was hanging it carefully above the mantle; a wedding portrait of him and her mother. Her mom’s smile in the photo was effortless, her eyes gleaming with life, as if the world had no right to touch her.

Betty walked closer and studied the image. “Mom was really a catch,” she said, teasing gently to soften the ache in her chest. “Lucky you.”

Her dad chuckled. “Well… I wasn’t bad myself,” he said, feigning offense, but his eyes shimmered.

She groaned, smirking. “You were okay, I guess.”

There was a pause.

Soft, reverent.

“I miss her,” she said quietly, her voice almost getting lost in the room.

Her father looked at the photo again. “Me too,” he said. “She’s the love of my life… both of you are.”

Betty felt it then, the warmth in her chest, like a candle flickering low but steady. Grief was still there, settled in her bones, but for a moment, so was comfort. This town, this small street, this aging house, they were like a box. A small, steady box to hold her shattered pieces.

“She would’ve wanted this for us, Dad,” she whispered.

“I know, honey… I know.”

A long silence. Not awkward, just heavy with things they didn’t have to say.

“I’ll order dinner,” Mikhail finally said, clearing his throat. “What do you want?”

Betty didn’t even have to think. “Some rice… and chicken tinola. Mom’s usual dinner menu.”

Mikhail smiled. This time, it reached his eyes, though only briefly. Then he turned away, pulling out his phone. Betty watched him for a second longer, his back slightly hunched, his hand trembling just a little. He was still grieving, quietly, endlessly. But he smiled for her. Held it together for her.

She turned back toward the stairs, climbing them slowly, her fingers trailing along the dustless banister. Tomorrow would come. The world was still moving. But tonight, in this small quiet town with her father and the taste of tinola waiting in the air, she let herself feel the warmth of what remained.

And for now, it was enough.

There was a knock at the door downstairs. A soft, tentative rap that echoed through the near-empty house. She went down and saw her dad open it, an older woman with salt-and-pepper hair and a bowl of adobo smiled warmly.

“Good evening! I saw your car earlier and thought, Mikhail Finn? Is that really you?”

“Tita Delia?” Mikhail’s face lit up. “Wow, it’s been years!”

“I heard what happened,” she said gently, looking at Betty. “I’m so sorry, anak. Your mother was lovely. She used to sing in our church choir.”