Chapter Text
It's been a while. This house has grown quiet.
Not eerie quiet, more like the kind of quiet that settles when laughter has faded, when loud chatter between family members and guests has died down, and the shrieks of children running through the hall have stopped. Now only the soft sound of footsteps tapping against the old wooden floor could be heard.
Time has dust tightly clung to the capiz windows, and the kitchen cabinets that display all of the expensive China kitchenwares are now draped in huge white cloths. While the sofas in the living area that once held countless guests were nowhere to be found.
This ancestral home in the province which was once the heart of our family has become a burden none of us wanted to keep. My father, uncles, and aunts had long moved out of the house. They are now scattered across the globe. And as for me, I've finally decided to move to Canada for good with my parents and I'm bringing my reluctant grandpa along with me.
Hence, the plan is to sell this house.
So today I opened the cabinets that hadn't been touched in decade, boxed up old china plates, and sorted through the yellowing documents left behind. By afternoon, after throwing out most of the old and unused items I finally reached the last room on the second floor.
My grandfather's room.
"Grandpa, I'm going to clean your room now!" I hollered. He never liked anyone going in and out of this room, especially me. He once said it's because I have an irritating habit of throwing away items that I deemed useless.
I waited for a moment to hear his permission.
No answer.
I let out a short audible exhale. He must be still ignoring my presence. A petty act of rebellion towards me for agreeing with the other family members to sell the old house.
What did he expect? To keep the house standing forever? Or turn it into a museum for later generations?
"Fine, keep being stubborn. It's not like you can stop me" I muttered under my breath.
Dust hung in the air as I pushed open the bedroom door, the hinges groaning softly in protest. The room had been untouched for years ever since my grandfather left years ago with my parents and I to the city to seek better medical attention. The curtains were drawn halfway, letting thin strips of afternoon light spill across the floorboards. Every surface carried a quiet layer of dust, as if time itself had settled there.
In the corner of the room opposite to the door, near his bed, stood a wooden bookcase whose shelves were too crowded with books, yellowing documents, and notebooks.
"This should have been paid labor" I sighed before rolling up my sleeves
While sorting between throwing away and retaining these literatures, something tucked between two thick novels caught my eyes. It was a small leather-bound diary. It didn't look like the others. The cover was worn and dark, the edges frayed, and the pages looked as if they had stuck together over time.
I pulled it out of curiosity.
Inside of it were pages filled with careful cursive handwriting in black ink dating all the way to the 1980s. It contains mostly grocery lists, small observations about animals, and anecdotes about daily life.
I never knew grandpa is the type to keep a journal around. But then how else would you entertain yourself without the internet?
While flipping through pages and pulling pages that were stuck together something slipped out.
Three small photographs.
They fluttered like fallen leaves onto the wooden floor.
I bent down to pick them up but before I could, one photograph caught my eye with words written on its back.
"In the middle of a bustling street, I met you
You walked towards me like that final scene in a romance film
Slow motion.
Pitter-patters.
And a tightened throat.
Maybe this is why people believe in love songs,
Because somewhere between traffic lights and tangled wires,
I found myself falling for you."
I flipped the photograph over.
There in that photo and every photo was my grandfather, except he was young. Probably was in his 20s. Here he stood tall with his hair still thick and dark. Beside him was a shorter guy with pale skin tone and narrowed eyes. They both were wearing bright unguarded smiles, one that makes your eyes disappear into crescent moon shape.
The two men were standing too close next to each other but there's something in a way it was captured that felt intimate and private.
And for a moment the quiet room felt heavier.
I frowned.
I knew most of my grandfather's friends from reunions, family occasions, and photo albums. Because after all I'm his friendliest grandchild. But this person? I haven't seen this one.
A strange feeling settled in my heart.
Who is the guy?
Why would these be hidden here? Not with every photo album we kept?
Why has no one ever spoken about him?
"Ah I see you've found that one." A familiar voice said behind me. "You've always been the nosey type, aren't you Dylan Castillo II?" Startled, I quickly shoved the photographs back into the journal and stood up before turning around to see the small smile painted across my grandfather's face.