Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 2

Mascara. Lip tint. A little blush. Not too much. I dabbed some powder across my nose and told myself I didn't look tired. I almost believed it.

Downstairs, the kitchen smelled like slightly burnt toast and instant coffee, a scent that used to feel like routine, now thick with nostalgia. I followed it, steps quiet on the creaky stairs, the sound of the world slowly waking outside. A rooster crowed a few blocks over, its voice cracking like a teenage boy, then silence, then...

"🎤 And I... will always love you..."

I stopped at the foot of the stairs, lips twitching at the unmistakable voice of Mang Ruel, our neighbor, warbling through Whitney Houston's greatest hit at 6:40 in the morning. His karaoke machine was already at full blast. I could hear someone, probably his wife, yell "Tama na, Ruel! Maawa ka sa umaga!" in the background.

Dad was already at the table, newspaper folded but unread, staring into the steam rising from his chipped mug. He wore his worn gray work shirt, the one that clung to his frame a little tighter now, like the fabric was tired too, and he looked up when I walked in, half-smiling, eyes crinkling at the edges but not lighting up.

"Morning," I said, my voice still raspy.

He nodded. "Morning, anak. You sleep okay?"

I shrugged, sitting across from him. "Yeah. Just... weird dreams."

He didn't ask. He never did anymore. Maybe because we both knew most dreams weren't really dreams now, they were memories wearing new clothes.

He slid a piece of toast toward me. No butter, no jam. Just dry bread and his best effort.

"I brewed the good kind today," he said, lifting the carafe with a small flourish, trying for a smile. "Imported, from the dusty top shelf of Tita Delia's sari-sari store."

I laughed softly, because we'd forgotten how to be loud and accepted the cup he poured. The coffee was bitter. Sharp. No sugar, just heat and weight and something to hold onto.

Sunlight filtered through the lace curtains, making the dust in the air glow like fireflies. The table, the chairs, even the cracked floor tiles, everything was bathed in that soft golden light that made the morning look kinder than it really was.

Dad cleared his throat.

"I got a call yesterday," he said, looking down at his mug. "From Mang Isko. He offered me a job... sa talyer niya. The town mechanic."

I looked up. "That's... good, right?"

He nodded slowly, eyes still on the swirling coffee. "It's something."

We let the silence stretch between us, not heavy, just there, like an old friend who didn't know when to leave. Outside, Mang Ruel had moved on to "My Way." Brave soul.

"I'll take it," Dad said after a moment. "It's close. It's quiet. I can still be here... for you."

That last part caught in his throat.

I wanted to say thank you. I wanted to say I was proud of him. That he was doing his best, even when it felt like the world had taken everything he loved and dared him to keep going. But the words sat like stones in my chest.

So instead, I reached across the table and squeezed his hand.

It was rough, calloused, a little stained from old grease that never really washed off. It reminded me of the hands that built my first bike. The hands that held me steady when I was learning how to walk. The hands that shook when we buried her.

"I like my toast this way," I said instead, taking a bite of the dry crust. "Extra crispy."

He looked at me and laughed, really laughed this time, just for a second, and I caught the flicker of something real. The way the light touched his face, you could almost pretend we were fine.