Chapter Text
PROLOGUE
Waves crashed somewhere in the distance, rhythmic and unbothered. The sky was pale with the kind of light that came just before dawn. Sand clung to Arabella’s skin, her clothes soaked through, and her head pounded like it had fought a war she couldn’t remember.
She didn’t know where she was.
Worse—she didn’t know who she was.
“Miss?”
The voice came from above her. Soft but sharp. A woman. Arabella squinted against the sun now rising behind the figure.
“Miss, are you okay?”
She tried to speak, but nothing came out except a hoarse breath. The woman knelt down, her brow furrowing. She had paint on her fingers and a voice that sounded like she didn’t like wasting words.
“Anong pangalan mo?”
Arabella opened her mouth again. Blank.
“Wala kang ID. Walang phone. Kahit wallet,” the woman muttered, almost to herself.
Arabella looked up at her, dazed. “I… I don’t know.”
The woman nodded once, then stood up. “Okay. You’re coming with me. You’ll freeze out here.”
That was how Arabella ended up in Maxine's world.
Maxine, who ran the island’s only rest house like it was her personal kingdom—quiet, rugged, and stubborn. She painted all day and kept to herself, but people from the mainland adored her. Her art hung in galleries, in cafés, in rich people’s condos. And still, she lived here—alone.
"Pwede ka dito," Maxine had said, once Arabella could stand and speak again. "Pero may kondisyon."
Arabella nodded, desperate for something—anything—that resembled a place to belong.
"You'll be my assistant. Personal. Tagalinis, tagabili ng supplies, taga-picture ng paintings. Lahat."
Arabella nodded again.
"Deal?"
"Deal," she whispered.
She didn’t know yet that Maxine’s world would become her map.
That the rest house wasn’t just shelter—it was a beginning.
That sometimes, identity isn’t found.
It’s built.
And maybe, just maybe—
it’s built with someone.
CHAPTER ONE
“You don’t work, you don’t stay.”
The first thing Arabella noticed about Maxine's rest house was that it didn’t feel like a business. It felt like a home. Worn wood floors, mismatched mugs, half-finished canvases leaning against walls. Paintbrushes in old jars. A hammock on the porch that looked like it hadn’t moved in days.
But it wasn’t cozy. Not really.
Maxine made sure of that.
“Gising ka na rin,” Maxine said flatly as she walked into the kitchen, barefoot, coffee mug in hand.
Arabella had barely sat up on the couch. Her neck ached from sleeping wrong, and the blanket Maxine gave her smelled faintly of turpentine and sea breeze.
“Anong oras na?” Arabella asked, rubbing her eyes.
“Alas-siete. Dapat gumising ka ng six.”
“Sorry.”
Maxine didn’t answer. She just placed another mug on the table. Coffee. No sugar, no milk.
Arabella took it anyway. She didn’t even like coffee, but it felt like something to hold onto.
“So… what exactly does being your assistant mean?” she asked carefully.
Maxine was already opening her sketchpad, flipping through pages. “You’ll figure it out.”
That was Maxine. No instruction manuals. No warm welcomes.
But Arabella stayed. Not because she liked it—yet—but because she had nowhere else to go. No name. No past. Just the crash, the island, and this woman who didn’t smile but didn’t leave her to rot either.
The first task was cleaning the studio.
“Walang gagalawin sa canvases. Tools lang ayusin mo. Linis ng sahig. Ayoko ng alikabok.”
Arabella nodded and got to work. She didn’t know what half the things were, but she dusted, swept, sorted. Her hands moved on instinct. Maybe she had done this before. Maybe not. Her body remembered things her mind couldn’t.
Maxine watched her, pretending not to.
By lunch, they still hadn’t said ten full sentences to each other.
Arabella cooked rice and opened a can of sardines. She was starving, but waited for Maxine to take the first bite.
“You’re not useless,” Maxine said quietly, halfway through her plate.
Arabella looked up. “Thanks?”
Maxine shrugged. “Just saying.”
That night, Arabella lay awake on the couch, staring at the ceiling fan that clicked every few seconds.
Maxine was somewhere upstairs, probably still painting.
Arabella whispered to herself, “Sino ba talaga ako?”
Silence answered.
But downstairs, a sketchpad sat open.
And on it, a charcoal drawing of a woman on the shore.
Soaked. Lost.
But not alone.
“Routine is safer than talking.”
The days fell into a quiet pattern.
Arabella would wake before the sun now—she learned her lesson after the third time Maxine didn’t bother waking her and just left her a cold cup of coffee and a note that said: ‘Clock starts at six. Not 6:15.’
She cleaned. The studio, the kitchen, the porch. She learned how Maxine liked her brushes sorted—flats, rounds, then details. Learned which rags were for wiping paint, and which were for cleaning tables. Learned never to move anything if it had a paint stain that looked fresh.
Maxine didn’t thank her. Not once.
But she stopped correcting her. And that, for Maxine, was something.
Sometimes, they'd go on supply runs into the town. It was a thirty-minute walk along a narrow trail that hugged the edge of the island. Maxine never made small talk. Arabella didn’t either—not anymore.
“Why don’t you just live near the town?” Arabella asked once.
Maxine didn’t stop walking. “Too loud.”
They walked the rest of the way in silence, boots crunching on gravel, wind picking up her paint-splattered jacket.
At the market, people recognized Maxine. Some tried to talk to her—ask about a painting, or if she’d be doing another exhibit soon. Maxine would nod, smile politely, then disappear to the next stall.
“She’s not rude,” one vendor whispered to Arabella. “Just don't like being looked at.”
Arabella got that.
So did Maxine, apparently.
Back at the house, afternoons were the quietest.
Arabella would fold laundry or take inventory of Maxine’s supplies. Sometimes she’d sit by the porch with a book she couldn’t focus on, glancing every now and then at the open studio window, watching Maxine paint.
There was something fierce in the way Maxine moved—precise but unafraid. As if she didn’t need to ask the canvas for permission.
Arabella wondered what that felt like.
To know what you’re doing. Who you are.