Carina's POV
The days in Metro Manila felt like an endless blur. I had told my parents it was for my education—something about wanting to broaden my horizons, experiencing life in a bigger city. They didn’t question it too much; after all, I had been the quiet, studious daughter for so long. I told them about the opportunities in this bustling city—the better schools, the new friends I could make. They were convinced that I was simply growing up, that I was ready to leave the small rural town behind and take on something bigger. They didn’t know the real reason behind my departure.
I had to leave. I couldn’t stay in that place, not with him still out there, lurking in the shadows. But even though I had physically moved miles away, it wasn’t that simple. The shadow was still in me, in my thoughts, in my soul.
Metro Manila was different—louder, faster, more crowded—but it was still a place where I could hide. I found solace in the anonymity of the city, in the idea that no one knew me here, no one knew what I had been through. My apartment was small but enough for me to live comfortably on my own. I enrolled in the university, took psychology as a major, thinking it might help me understand what had happened to me, what that thing was. But in the back of my mind, the truth was clear—I wasn’t studying to understand. I was studying to run. To forget. To keep my mind occupied so I wouldn’t think about him.
I tried. I really did. I made new friends—some of them even became close to me—but it wasn’t the same. I never felt the connection with anyone like I had with him. There was always a part of me that felt empty, that longed for the presence I once feared so deeply.
I couldn’t explain it. I couldn’t even admit it to myself for the longest time. But the more time passed, the more I realized that I had loved him. The shadow, the diablo, the engkanto—whatever it was, I loved it.
The old woman’s warnings echoed in my mind, but I couldn’t make myself believe them. She had told me that the shadow was a trickster, that everything I felt—every sensation, every caress, every moment of peace I had with it—was just a manipulation. She had said that it was using me, feeding off my soul, that it would never let me go, that it would destroy me.
But I knew the truth.
The shadow had never hurt me. It had never controlled me. It had never asked anything of me that I wasn’t willing to give. It didn’t demand my soul; it just... was. It didn’t want to hurt me—it only wanted to exist with me. And I had let it. I had allowed it to grow with me, to be my silent companion. I had thought I was in control, that I was using it. But deep down, I knew I wasn’t.
I had been the one under its spell all along.
I still remembered the way it felt, the sensation of its touch, cold and soothing at the same time. Its scent—the familiar, intoxicating aroma of something ancient, something that didn’t belong in this world. I remembered the way it whispered to me, the way it moved in the shadows, its eyes glowing with an intensity I could never forget.
The feeling of being cradled in its arms was the only thing that had made me feel alive. The only thing that made me feel real.
But I couldn’t tell anyone. I couldn’t explain why I missed it. They would never understand. They would never believe me. And if I ever spoke of it, I would be labeled insane, or worse, they might try to take me back to the place where it all began.
So I kept it all inside. I kept my feelings buried deep within, never letting anyone get too close. I told myself I was doing the right thing—moving on, starting fresh, leaving the past behind. But the truth was that I could never escape it.
At night, when I lay in my small bed in my apartment, I would close my eyes and feel the cold, empty space beside me. It wasn’t just the absence of the shadow—it was the absence of him. And I hated myself for it. For missing the thing that had tormented me, for wanting something that had taken everything from me and given nothing in return.
But the longing never stopped.
And sometimes, late at night, I would catch myself standing by the window, staring into the darkness beyond. I would feel a presence, a weight, like it was waiting for me. Like it was still there, still watching. And every time I felt it, I would tell myself that it was just my imagination, that it was the memories of the past playing tricks on me.
But deep down, I knew the truth.
The shadow was still there.
I couldn’t escape it.
Not really.
And as much as I tried to deny it, I knew that I would never be free of it. Not the shadow. Not him.
Somewhere, out there, in the darkness, he was waiting for me.
And I would go to him.
Eventually.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks bled into months. Life in Metro Manila had become routine—mundane, even. I went to class, I studied, I worked part-time to pay the bills, and I interacted with the people around me only when I had to. I built walls around myself. No one here knew who I really was. No one knew what I had done. What I had been through. And that’s how I wanted it. I wanted to forget.
But as much as I tried, the past wouldn’t stay buried. It would creep back in during quiet moments. It would invade my thoughts at night when the city outside my window fell into silence. And sometimes, just sometimes, I would hear it—feel it—when the room was too dark, when the wind would sweep through the streets, carrying the scent of rain. The memory of his cold touch would return, and the longing would come rushing back, consuming me.
It was the night after a particularly grueling week of exams when I received the call.
I was sitting on my bed, going over notes, the soft light of my desk lamp flickering. My phone rang, shattering the silence. I glanced at the screen, seeing my aunt’s name flash. My heart skipped a beat.
"Hello?"
"Carina," her voice trembled on the other end. "It’s your parents... They’re... They’re gone."
For a second, the world felt like it paused. My hands trembled as I gripped the phone. My mind raced, trying to comprehend what she was saying.
"What do you mean gone? What happened?"
"They... they died in their sleep," my aunt continued, her voice wavering. "No signs of struggle. No injuries. The doctors said... they died naturally. But it doesn’t make sense, Carina. They were fine. Just a few days ago, they were fine."
A coldness crept over me. My heart dropped to my stomach, but my thoughts became strangely distant. My parents. Gone. But what struck me was the way she said it—their deaths didn’t make sense.
I felt an odd sense of detachment, like I was listening to someone else's life, someone else's tragedy. I didn’t cry. I didn’t feel anything. Not at first. But as soon as I hung up, the weight of what she had told me sank in, and I began to wonder:
Had they truly died naturally? Or had something, or someone, caused it?
I couldn’t shake the thought that this was all too... convenient. Too clean. Like it wasn’t just a natural death, but something orchestrated. Something planned.
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