Silungan

Chapter 1: Mayi

The sharp beep of my 5:30 AM alarm cut through the sound of rain hammering against the glass.

I took a slow breath, pulling the blanket up to my chin for one last minute of silence before the morning rush. In an hour, I would need to wake Kali, pack her lunchbox, and navigate the flooded streets to get to school before my early childhood students arrived. But for right now, in this quiet bedroom, the morning belonged entirely to me.

I turned on the morning news show and saw that classes had been suspended again. I brewed my coffee and poured a splash of oat milk. The beans were from Mindanao—a find from a local bazaar last month. I always wondered why local products struggled to gain traction in our own country. I watched the steam rise from my cup while I glanced out the window. The rain had paused for a moment, but the sky remained heavy with grey clouds.

Kali and I have lived in this one-bedroom condominium in the heart of Metro Manila for two years now. At forty-two square meters, it gave us just enough space to breathe. I used to think of condos as cold, concrete boxes. But here, the layout felt like home. When you step through the front door, the small kitchen sits on the right—an electric stove, a sink, a refrigerator, and a washing machine tucked neatly beneath the countertop. A white wooden dining set sat in the center of the room, directly across from the bedroom door. Beside the balcony, a two-seater gray sofa faced a modest television. Inside the bedroom was our double-sized mattress, a study table, and two closets—one for Kali, one for me. A typical condo layout, but it was ours.

I walked toward the balcony—passing Kali's toys, which were kept neatly in a box beside the sofa—and slid the glass door open. A wave of cold, damp air washed over my face. It was unusually calming.

My phone chimed on the counter. I reached for it and read the notification from our department head, Ms. Lea.

Dear Teachers, I hope you are all safe today. In lieu of physically reporting to school, we will hold an online meeting today at 10:00 AM. A visiting researcher will present a study regarding classroom routines.

I glanced at the clock. It was only 6:30 AM. I had time.

I decided to prepare Kali's favorite breakfast: chicken macaroni soup. A true Filipino staple for cold, wet weather. I chopped the onions, garlic, and carrots, set the water to boil for the macaroni, and started sauteing.

"Mom?"

Kali was still half-asleep when she wandered into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes.

"You don't have school today, honey. You can still sleep," I told her softly.

She looked up and smiled. "Can I help instead?"

"Grab the chair. Come here."

I handed her the wooden spatula and lifted her onto the sturdy dining chair beside the counter. I marvelled internally at how fast time was moving—Kali was already five years old. Years ago, during the worst of my life with Joe, I had never imagined myself raising a daughter. But standing here now, I was profoundly grateful for her. She was pure joy.

"Okay, now we're pouring the milk, and then we just wait for it to simmer," I guided her. "You can set the table, anak."

Kali scrambled down from the chair and grabbed two bowls and spoons from the lower cabinet. We ate our breakfast quietly while the morning news broadcast played in the background.

"I have a faculty meeting at ten," I said, offering her another spoonful. "Can you manage your schoolwork while I'm on the call?"

"Of course, Mom," she responded through a mouthful of warm soup.

At a quarter to ten, I went into the bedroom, opened my laptop, and logged into the video link. At 10:00 AM sharp, the meeting room filled with familiar faces. But as I scrolled through the list of participants, one name made my heart stop.

Alexandria Lopez.

My breath caught in my throat. Is she back in Manila? How long has it been?