Alysa descended the creaking stairs, her fingers trailing along the rough wooden banister as her steps echoed in the stillness of the villa. The weight of her thoughts bore down on her like a storm gathering on the horizon. Each footfall felt heavier than the last, and with every step, the pounding in her skull intensified—a sharp, persistent throb that made her wince.
By the time she reached the living room, a migraine had tightened its grip around her temples, sending flashes of white-hot pain shooting behind her eyes. Her hand flew to her head, fingers pressing hard against her temple, as if she could somehow stave off the agony.
"Leandro." His name surfaced unbidden, like a whisper in the back of her mind. Her pulse quickened, and her breath grew shallow. "Why am I hearing his voice?" The question clawed at her, a jagged puzzle piece that didn’t fit, no matter how hard she tried to make sense of it. A low growl of frustration escaped her lips as she collapsed onto the mahogany sofa, the familiar creak of old wood barely registering. She tilted her head back, eyes drifting to the cracked ceiling above, where shadows twisted in the flickering light of the few remaining candles.
Her thoughts raced like a wild river, crashing against the jagged rocks of her confusion. Why couldn’t she remember? The memories danced just beyond her grasp, slipping away the moment she reached for them, leaving her feeling hollow and helpless.
The scent of aged wood and musty fabric filled the room, mingling with the distant aroma of burning incense. The villa had its own heartbeat—its own life—that seemed to pulse around her, oppressive and claustrophobic. It wasn’t just the silence that bothered her—it was the feeling that the house was watching, waiting, knowing more than it let on.
Suddenly, the sound of quiet footsteps broke through her reverie, the light shuffle of slippers on the worn wooden floor. Manang Anita appeared, her warm, familiar presence a balm to the tension gripping Alysa’s body. She carried a small tray with snacks, the soft clatter of porcelain offering a soothing contrast to the heavy atmosphere.
“Hija,” Manang Anita’s voice was gentle, her eyes crinkling with concern. “You’re up. You should get some more rest.”
Alysa managed a weary smile, though it felt forced, like a mask she wasn’t quite sure how to wear. “Thank you, Manang.” Her voice was low, strained, her frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “I just... I’m so worried about Lyka. I want to help her, to do something—anything—but I don’t know how.” She rubbed her temples, feeling the pounding of her pulse there. The helplessness was almost worse than the pain.
Manang Anita’s warm, weathered hand rested on Alysa’s shoulder, grounding her in the moment. “Don’t force it, Hija,” she said, her voice as soft and steady as a lullaby. “God will help us. We’ll find the answers we need, in due time.”
Alysa let out a slow breath, trying to calm the storm inside her. She wanted to believe Manang Anita’s words, wanted to trust that things would resolve on their own. But something dark lingered in the back of her mind, gnawing at her thoughts—Leandro’s voice, Lyka’s curse, the unanswered questions that felt like ticking time bombs. “I hope you’re right, Manang,” she said, though doubt laced her tone.
“Come, Hija, eat some snacks.” Manang Anita offered the tray with a small, encouraging smile, her eyes full of a motherly kind of concern. “I’ll bring some to your friends.”
Before she stood, Manang Anita squeezed Alysa’s hand, the warmth of her touch cutting through the chill in the room. “Everything will be okay,” she muttered softly, her voice full of quiet reassurance. Her words, though comforting, hung in the air like a prayer—not yet answered, but hopeful nonetheless.
Alysa smiled faintly as she watched Manang Anita rise from the sofa, her joints creaking softly as she ascended the stairs with the grace of someone used to carrying burdens far heavier than they appeared. The soft padding of her footsteps grew fainter with each step, blending into the creaks of the old wooden floor until there was only silence.
The room felt suddenly larger, emptier. Alysa’s gaze fell on the small plate of kakanins Manang Anita had left. The delicately wrapped rice cakes, glistening in banana leaves, beckoned to her with their familiar sweetness. Her stomach growled softly—a reminder of how long it had been since she last ate. She reached for one, the smooth texture of the leaf cool beneath her fingers as she peeled it back.
Just as her fingers closed around the soft, sticky rice, a sharp voice rang out, slicing through the quiet like a blade.
"Don't eat that!"
Alysa gasped, her hand freezing mid-air. The kakanin slipped from her fingers, landing with a soft thud back onto the plate. Her heart lurched in her chest as her eyes darted around the room, searching frantically for the source of the voice. It was unmistakable—Leandro’s voice, filled with urgency, but the room remained eerily still. No movement. No sign of him. Just the faint echo of his words lingering in the air, as if the villa itself had whispered them back to her.
Her pulse quickened, her breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. She stood up, the hairs on the back of her neck rising as she scanned the shadows that clung to the corners of the room. The air suddenly felt colder, heavier, pressing down on her as though the villa was trying to close in on her.
"Leandro?" she whispered, her voice barely audible, her mind racing. Her eyes flicked toward the windows, half-expecting to see him standing there, just outside, watching her. But there was no one. Only the shifting light of the late afternoon filtering through the thick, dust-covered glass, casting long, distorted shadows across the floor.
What was that? she thought, her mind a whirl of confusion. She pressed her palm to her forehead, the faint remnants of the earlier migraine still throbbing. Was she imagining things? Was her mind playing tricks on her, or was Leandro somehow... here, even when he wasn’t?
Afternoon settled in with a somber, golden hue that filtered through the villa’s old wooden shutters, casting long, slanted shadows on the floor. The air inside felt thick, as if the weight of everything that had transpired hung like a damp cloth over the space, making it hard to breathe freely. Outside, the faint rustle of the wind through the trees seemed distant, muted, as though even the natural world was holding its breath.
Ka Isong arrived once more, his presence a steady contrast to the ominous tension that gripped the villa. His steps were slow but purposeful, his weathered face as unreadable as the secrets he carried. As he entered Lyka’s room, he didn’t say much, only nodding to the others before setting down his small satchel of oils and herbs. His movements were quiet, deliberate. The air around him smelled faintly of camphor and lemongrass, scents that seemed to cling to him like a protective aura.
With a solemn expression, he poured a thin stream of oil over Lyka’s bare feet. The thick, herbal scent filled the room, mixing with the faint must of the old villa. Alysa watched, her heart heavy with worry as the liquid glistened on Lyka’s pale skin, soaking into her like a balm.
“This will slow the curse,” Ka Isong said, his voice low, almost a whisper. His gaze didn’t leave Lyka as he massaged the oil into her skin, his hands moving with a practiced precision. “But it cannot cure it.”
The finality in his tone sent a shiver through Alysa, as though a door had been closed on hope. She swallowed, her throat dry. The room felt colder, though there was no breeze. Alysa wanted to ask more, wanted to understand, but before she could, Ka Isong’s dark, intense eyes shifted to her, and she felt the weight of his gaze settle on her like a heavy blanket.
“How are you, Alysa?” His voice softened when he addressed her, though there was an edge to his words, as though he knew there was more going on beneath the surface.
Alysa opened her mouth to answer, but her words faltered. How was she? Could she even put into words the chaos that was swirling inside her—Lyka’s curse, the unanswered questions, the strange flashes of Leandro’s voice echoing in her head? Instead, she simply shook her head, feeling that same frustration bubble up inside her, threatening to break through the fragile calm she was barely holding on to.
“I’m... I’m not sure,” she admitted finally, her voice sounding distant to her own ears. “Things feel... fragmented. Like there’s something I should know, but I can’t remember it.”
Ka Isong nodded, as if her words confirmed something he already understood. He reached into his satchel and pulled out a small vial, handing it to her with the same measured calm. “This will help with the migraines,” he said, though his eyes didn’t leave hers. There was something more in his gaze, a deeper knowledge she wasn’t privy to.
Then, as if deciding it was time to say more, he leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Do not trust your eyes, Alysa. Not everything you see is real.”
The moment the words left his lips, a sharp pain shot through Alysa’s head, causing her to wince. She clutched her temples, trying to stave off the throbbing that suddenly intensified behind her eyes. And then, like a dam breaking, flashes of memory tore through her mind, vivid and overwhelming.
“I am not what you think I am.” Leandro’s voice. His face, shrouded in shadow, his eyes intense but not unkind. The memory was so clear, so visceral, that for a second, she wasn’t sure if she was still in the villa or somewhere else entirely.
More flashes came, rapid and disjointed. She saw herself running—running through a vast open field, grasses towering over her, wild and untamed, their golden stalks swaying in the wind. The sky above was an expanse of deep blue, but the sun was setting, casting long, eerie shadows that chased her. She could feel the rush of the wind against her face, the pounding of her feet against the earth, her breath coming in sharp gasps.
Then, another image—she was sitting on a thick, gnarled branch of a massive tree. Its bark was rough beneath her hands, but she felt no fear. Beside her, a dark figure loomed—the kapre. Its presence was both familiar and strange, its hulking form nearly blending into the ancient tree. There was no malice in its eyes, only a quiet understanding, as if it had been watching over her all along.
The scene shifted again. This time, she stood by a river. The water was crystal clear, reflecting the dense canopy of trees overhead. She knelt by the edge, her fingers dipping into the cool, flowing water. There was something peaceful about this place, but it was fleeting. The peace was always fleeting.
As the memories crashed into her, each one more vivid than the last, her migraine exploded in intensity. The pain was unbearable now, sharp and searing, as if her skull was splitting open. She could barely keep track of what was real and what was memory, her mind blurring the line between them. Her heart raced, pounding against her ribcage like a drumbeat of panic.
She gasped, her vision spinning as the room swam before her eyes. The walls of the villa seemed to close in, the edges of her consciousness fraying. She tried to stand, to steady herself, but her legs gave out beneath her.
The last thing she saw before the darkness claimed her was Ka Isong’s face, his eyes watching her with the same calm certainty.
Then, everything went black.