Chapter Text
The hum of the car engine had long faded into the background as Summer pressed his forehead against the window. The landscape outside shifted gradually, from the concrete sprawl of the city to the wide embrace of open fields. The air seemed clearer here, the horizon stretching endlessly, broken only by the silhouettes of palm trees swaying in the afternoon wind.
It was late May, peak of the dry season. The sky glowed with that unmistakable golden haze, almost blinding yet strangely nostalgic. Heat shimmered on the road, making everything dance in the distance. He remembered this road vaguely from his childhood trips, but this time it felt heavier, like each kilometer they traveled carried him deeper into something he was not prepared to face.
“Malapit na tayo, Summer,” his mother said from the passenger seat. Her voice was light, cheerful even, but Summer could hear the undertone, something caught between excitement and duty.
He only hummed in response, eyes still on the passing scenery. A cluster of nipa huts appeared on the roadside, children playing barefoot with makeshift kites, their laughter rising above the hum of cicadas. For a fleeting moment, he envied them. Their world seemed simple, untouched by the weight of expectations and the silence that often haunted his family gatherings.
When they finally turned into a narrower road lined with old acacia trees, Summer felt a strange chill despite the heat. The trees arched over them like watchful guardians, their sprawling branches creating shifting shadows that dappled the car. He caught himself holding his breath until the end of the lane revealed what he had been both anticipating and dreading.
Their ancestral home.
It stood proudly at the center of a sprawling lot, its wooden panels darkened with age, the capiz windows glinting faintly in the light. The wide stone staircase led up to a grand veranda, where the railings curled with ornate carvings that had weathered decades. It was the kind of house you only saw in history books, alive with the weight of generations.
Summer stepped out of the car, the air thick with the mingling scents of earth, dried leaves, and the faint salt carried from the sea not too far away. He tilted his head upward, staring at the house. It looked both magnificent and suffocating, like a relic that refused to die.
“Summer! Happy birthday!”
The call pulled him back. His aunts and uncles crowded the veranda, waving and smiling as they rushed down to greet him. Hugs followed one after another, kisses planted on his cheeks, pats on the back. The noise of reunion filled the air, and though Summer smiled and greeted back, there was a hollow space in his chest that the warmth of family could not quite reach.
As they ushered him inside, he took in the familiar interior. The high ceilings, the massive chandelier that looked ready to collapse any moment, the long dining table that seemed built for endless feasts. Every corner breathed history. On the walls hung portraits of ancestors dressed in barong and Filipiniana, stern faces staring down like silent judges.
“Magpahinga ka muna, apo,” his lola Andromeda said kindly, patting his shoulder. “Later, we’ll start the celebration.”
Summer nodded, though he doubted rest would come. His eyes wandered past the wide open windows, and that was when he noticed it.
Across the street, almost directly facing their grand ancestral house, stood another home.
It was modest, much smaller, its once white paint now faded to gray. The roof bore rusted patches, and the wooden fence looked ready to collapse. Yet despite its weary appearance, there was something enduring about it, as if it had quietly survived countless storms.
And for reasons he could not explain, Summer’s chest tightened at the sight of it. The laughter and chatter of his relatives faded into the background as he found himself staring.
It was a strange pull, almost painful, as though some invisible thread tied him to that old house across the street. He had never seen it before, or perhaps he had, long ago.. but now it was impossible to look away. His heart ached with a longing he could not name.
“Summer!” One of his cousins tugged him toward the dining room, breaking the trance.
He blinked, forcing a smile, and let himself be pulled along. But even as they filled his plate with food and surrounded him with chatter, he could not shake the image of that house.
And deep down, he knew,
something waited for him there.
○○○
The dining hall was alive with noise, every inch of the long wooden table filled with dishes his relatives had proudly prepared: steaming pancit canton, adobo in clay pots, a roasted lechon glistening under the soft glow of the warm light emanating from the old chandelier. Someone had even made his favorite mango float, the crushed graham edges slightly melting into the cream.
“Happy birthday, Summer!” his cousins chorused, raising their glasses of soda.
He smiled, raising his own, and took a sip. Around him the chatter swirled. His titas bragging about their children’s achievements, uncles discussing land disputes, cousins laughing about trivial stories. It was warm, familiar, almost overwhelming.
Yet Summer found himself retreating into silence.
He watched the way his grandfather Helios sat at the head of the table, quiet but dignified, his presence alone commanding respect. Every now and then, Lolo Helios would nod at the conversation, his lips curving into a small smile. But his eyes.. sharp, old, and heavy with memory, barely moved from the glass of wine in his hand.
Summer’s mother leaned over. “Anak, eat more. You’re too thin,” she scolded softly, piling extra meat onto his plate.
He chuckled, obediently taking a bite. The food was delicious, yet there was a strange hollowness in his stomach, as if no amount of food could satisfy the weight he carried. His mind kept drifting to the modest house across the street, the image of it carved into the back of his eyelids.
As the night went on, the stories at the table turned toward the family’s history. One of his younger cousins asked curiously, “Lola, bakit andaming portraits dito? Sino-sino sila?”
Their grandmother chuckled, pointing at the walls. “Those are your great-granduncles and grandaunts. This house has seen many generations, children. Each one left something behind.”
Summer’s eyes roamed over the rows of portraits, stern and faded. He knew most of the faces, at least, the ones his family bothered to talk about. But he noticed gaps too. Empty spaces where perhaps portraits once hung but were taken down.
He leaned a little closer to hear better as his uncle began recounting stories of the old days, of how their ancestors helped establish the town, of how they were known as a respected family. The stories were grand, proud, meant to inspire.
But then Summer caught a flicker in his grandfather’s expression, a brief tightening of the jaw, a glance toward a blank stretch of wall.
“Lolo,” he asked carefully, “were there… other siblings?”
The table went quiet for a beat too long.
His mother quickly interjected, laughing lightly. “You know families, anak. Of course there were cousins and extended relatives, but not all are remembered clearly.”
Another aunt nodded in agreement, changing the subject swiftly to the preparations for the fiesta next week. The atmosphere picked up again, laughter resuming, but Summer noticed the way his grandfather avoided his eyes, the way silence pressed down like a secret no one dared to touch.
It left a knot in his chest.
Later, after the food had been cleared and the cake eaten, his cousins dragged him to the veranda for late-night drinks. The air outside was cooler now, cicadas humming endlessly, the moon hanging heavy over the sky. The ancestral house glowed warmly behind them, lanterns casting shadows on the yard.
Yet Summer’s eyes betrayed him once more.
Across the street, the modest house stood quiet in the moonlight. Its windows dark, its walls worn but unbroken. For a moment, he thought he saw a flicker of light inside, as if someone had just passed by. He blinked, and the house was still again.
“Summer, are you even listening?” one cousin nudged him.
He forced a grin. “Sorry. Just.. got distracted.”
Distracted. That was the safe word. But the truth was more complicated. His chest ached every time he looked at that house. Like it was calling to him. Like it had been waiting for him.
And the strangest part was, he felt as if he should remember it.
○○○○
The house was never silent. Even in the stillness of midnight, the old wood seemed to breathe. The floors creaked faintly under the shifting temperature, the wind threaded itself through the cracks of the capiz windows, and somewhere far in the yard, a dog barked once and fell quiet again.
Summer lay on the bed in the guest room, staring at the ceiling beams above him. Sleep refused to come. His body was tired, heavy from the long trip and the day’s festivities, but his mind churned restlessly. Every time he closed his eyes, the image of the modest house across the street surfaced again, pressing against his chest like an ache that refused to ease.
He turned to his side, then to the other, until finally he sat up with a frustrated sigh. Maybe a walk would help.
The corridor outside was bathed in the pale glow of moonlight filtering through the capiz shells. Shadows stretched long on the wooden floor, making each step feel like a trespass. He passed by closed doors where his relatives slept soundly, their breaths steady, unaware of the restlessness that gripped him.
At the far end of the hallway, a staircase led downward to the main sala. The air grew cooler as he descended, the silence thicker, heavier. He paused at the base, staring at the portraits lined across the walls.
Generations of stern faces gazed down at him, men in barong, women in intricate baro’t saya, and children in stiff formal wear. Their eyes seemed to follow him, quiet witnesses of a family legacy he barely understood.
His steps carried him past the sala, into a narrower corridor he vaguely remembered from his childhood. At the end stood a door, unremarkable except for the faint scent of dust that seemed to seep from its cracks. Something tugged at him, an instinct he couldn’t name.
The door groaned when he pushed it open.
Inside was a storage room, dim and suffocating. The smell of old wood and mothballs enveloped him. Dust coated every surface, and draped white sheets covered the shapes of forgotten furniture. The moonlight filtered weakly through a small window, illuminating motes of dust that danced in the air.
Summer hesitated at the threshold. He knew he shouldn’t be here. Yet the pull was undeniable.
His fingers brushed against the edge of an old baul, its brass lock broken, revealing a glimpse of yellowed letters inside. He made a mental note to come back, but it was something else that caught his attention.. it was a large frame leaning against the far wall, covered in a heavy cloth.
Heart hammering, he stepped closer. With both hands, he pulled the cloth away.
The first portrait revealed a young man, dignified and composed, with sharp features that carried an undeniable authority. His Lolo Helios. Summer had seen a few photographs of his grandfather in his youth, but never like this. Here he looked untouchable, proud, as though the world bent to his will.
Summer swallowed, moving to the next portrait, where Helios was surrounded by several brothers. He took in their faces one by one, trying to memorize the unfamiliar features.
And then his gaze fell on a figure near the edge.
A young man, slightly smaller than the others. Gentle eyes, soft smile. A beauty that felt fragile, as though a single harsh word could break him. His hair fell neatly over his forehead, and there, just below his eye, a small mole.
Summer’s breath hitched.
The face staring back at him was his own.
Not just a resemblance, but almost a mirror. The same curve of the lips, the same slope of the nose, even the mole in the exact same place. It was uncanny, terrifying, and intimate all at once.
He staggered back a step, gripping the edge of a covered chair for support. His mind screamed that this was impossible, yet his chest burned with a familiarity that went beyond logic.
The name written beneath the portrait: Sirius
Summer whispered it aloud, his voice trembling. “Sirius..”
The syllables rolled off his tongue like something remembered rather than learned. His heart pounded so hard he thought it might break through his ribs.
Why had no one told him about this man? Why had this face, his face.. been buried here, hidden away as though he had never existed?
A chill swept over him as he stared at the portrait. The longer he looked, the heavier the ache in his chest became, as if grief long forgotten had clawed its way back to life. His vision blurred, not from dust but from tears he couldn’t understand.
Summer lifted a trembling hand, brushing his fingers lightly against the canvas, tracing the outline of Sunoo’s face.
“Who were you…?” he whispered. “And why do I feel like I’ve already lost you?”
The storage room offered no answers, only silence. But Summer knew, deep in his bones, that this was only the beginning.
○○○○
Summer returned to his room with the weight of the portrait pressing down on his chest. His skin still tingled from where his fingers had traced Sunoo’s face on the canvas, as though the painting itself had reached back and touched him.
He closed the door softly behind him, leaning against it for a moment. The room was dim, lit only by the silver glow of the moon spilling through the window. He tried to steady his breathing, but the silence felt too loud.
As his eyes adjusted, something immediately caught his attention.
At the foot of his bed sat an object that had not been there before.
It was a camera.
Old, heavy-looking, the kind that belonged to another century. Its metal frame gleamed faintly in the moonlight, though dust clung to its edges. The leather strap lay curled beside it, cracked with age. It looked out of place against the crisp white sheets, like a relic that had wandered into the wrong time.
Summer frowned, approaching cautiously. He glanced around the room, half-expecting someone to leap out laughing, claiming it as a prank. But the hallway beyond his door was silent, the house asleep.
He crouched down, running his fingers lightly along the camera’s cold surface. It felt real, solid. The kind of antique you might find in a museum.
“Where did you come from…?” he murmured.
There was no answer, only the steady tick of the old wall clock.
Against his better judgment, he lifted it. The weight surprised him, it was heavier than it looked, grounding him with a strange gravity. When he turned it over, he noticed faint initials carved into the underside of the leather strap.
P. AQL
Summer blinked. He didn’t recognize the initials, but something about them felt significant, as if they should mean something. He set the camera carefully on his desk, intending to ask his grandfather about it in the morning.
Exhaustion finally caught up with him. He slipped under the sheets, his mind swirling with images: the house across the street, the portrait of Sirius, the cold weight of the camera in his hands.
When he closed his eyes, he thought it would take him a long time to fall asleep. But the darkness pulled him in swiftly, almost greedily.
____
And then he was standing somewhere else.
The air smelled of grass and earth, damp from recent rain. Crickets sang in the distance. Around him stretched a wide field, the sky painted with hues of orange and violet, the last breath of sunset lingering at the horizon.
He looked down at himself. His clothes were different. It was simpler, older, as if he had stepped into another lifetime.
“Sirius.”
The voice made his heart lurch.
He turned.
A young man stood a few feet away, dressed in white, his hair catching the fading light. His face was sharp, handsome, but softened by the warmth in his eyes. He held a camera in his hands, identical to the one Summer had found by his bed.
The man smiled. “You’re late.”
Summer opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His throat tightened, his chest aching. He didn’t know this man, and yet.. he did. The sight of him felt like a wound reopening.
The man walked closer, his smile gentler now. “You always keep me waiting.”
And before Summer could understand, before he could even ask who he was, the world around him shifted like a film reel snapping. The colors bled, the sound of crickets distorted, and darkness swept over him.
___
He woke with a start.
His heart pounded against his ribs, his sheets damp with sweat. The first rays of dawn were just beginning to filter through the capiz window. On his desk, the antique camera sat where he had left it, silent, patient, as if it had been watching him all night.
×××
TBC.