Even before dawn broke, the town was already awake.
Not because of blaring speakers, campaign jingles, or traffic adorned with flags.
They were awake because of prayer.
Silent. Sincere. Real.
In front of the church, people slowly began to gather—faces familiar with waiting, hearts that had long endured sorrow and quiet hope.
This wasn't a celebration.
It wasn't a feast day.
It was a return.
A long-awaited homecoming.
And there, in the stillness of the church, knelt Mayor Andy David Lacson.
Silent. Head bowed. Rosary in hand—clinging tightly to hope.
He was joined by his entire team:
Vice Mayor Carla Bautista, and Councilors Chino Bucu, Nics Santos, Joey Baluyut, Angel Gutierrez, Cloyd Layug, Mar Bernardo, AL Palac, and Negro Bandido.
But in that moment, there was no politics.
No cameras.
No campaign.
Only prayer. Only God. Only the people.
This wasn't a show. This was his truth.
Always—he placed God first, especially before making any decision for the people.
As the priest's voice filled the sanctuary with a homily, he didn't move.
No glances around.
No smiles.
Only his rosary, and a heart full of prayer.
Each whispered plea carried the weight of those who had lost jobs, those who had been unheard, those who had been disheartened by a broken system.
And in every quiet second, his soul seemed to whisper:
"I will carry you once more. I will never leave you."
It was then, watching him kneel in solemn stillness, that I realized—
He wasn't just a leader.
He was the kind of man whose goodness could be felt even in silence.
After the mass, they proceeded to the COMELEC office.
But it wasn't a walk.
It was a procession of purpose.
As they walked, more and more people gathered—some waving small flags, others in red shirts, a few with tears in their eyes, and many carrying nothing but bread or fans in hand.
No celebrities.
No staged cheers.
Just pure, raw emotion.
Upon reaching the steps of the COMELEC, Mayor Andy paused.
He stood there for a moment, quietly, before looking at the crowd in front of him—faces he had known long ago.
Faces that had stayed, even when time and power had not.
"I didn't expect this many to join us today," he began.
"But with every waving hand, with every pair of eyes looking back at me, I know—I did not make a mistake in coming back.
I did not return for power.
I returned for you.
For the dreams we've yet to fulfill.
For the town we can still rebuild—and love—together."
One by one, Team Anjo entered the COMELEC office.
There was no arrogance in their stride.
No grand show.
Only a quiet mix of nerves and faith.
As if with every step, they were silently saying:
"It begins again. The fight resumes."
When they emerged after filing, they were met with applause.
Not the kind reserved for fame or spectacle—
but for people who stayed, even when the system abandoned them.
They took a simple photo—no backdrop, no filters, no props.
Just smiles.
Genuine smiles.
The kind that come with a silent ache—because everyone knows the road ahead won't be easy.
Before leaving, Mayor Andy turned once more to those who hadn't left.
"Thank you," he said.
"Even if I can't shake hands with each of you, know this: you are in my heart."
"I did not return carrying only my name. I came back bearing all of yours."
"Now that our journey has begun again, we will walk it together—no matter where it leads."
"This fight isn't mine alone. It is ours.
A fight for the dawn of new hope.
For the future of our children.
For a town we dream of—stronger, more honest, and more compassionate."
"And with every step we take, with every voice that rises to uphold truth and justice—remember:
We are not alone.
We walk side by side.
And we will triumph—not because of one person, but because of our unity."
Before noon even struck, it felt as if the entire town had been swept by a wave.
Not a wave of noise.
Not a wave of jealousy.
But a wave of trust.
A new kind of faith.
A hope reignited—not through speeches,
but through the quiet action of a man who returned—
not to win,
but to love again.