The smell of lavender clung to everything in the house—the curtains, the couch, even the air in the hallway.
It wasn't perfume. It was laundry detergent.
Maria was humming again, moving between the dining table and the window. She hummed the same tune she always did, like she only knew one song but didn't mind. A basket of freshly washed clothes sat on one chair, a watering can on the other.
I sat on the floor beside the table, sketchbook balanced on my knees, pencil scratching over paper.
Another monster. Long arms, thin legs, claws that looked too sharp for its frame.
"You draw these things every night," Maria said, her voice light and teasing. She didn't look at me right away; she was busy pushing the curtains aside to water the little row of houseplants by the window. "Don't you ever get tired of monsters?"
I shrugged without looking up. "Not really."
"You don't want to draw… I don't know… flowers? Basketball players?"
"I don't play basketball."
"You don't do a lot of things," she said with a small smile, folding one of my old shirts. "You could go out with friends, you know. Like kids your age are supposed to."
The pencil moved on its own, shading in the hollow sockets of the monster's eyes.
"I'm fine here," I said.
She sighed—not disappointed, not frustrated. Just one of those sighs moms do when they want you to live more than you seem to want to.
The smell of adobo drifted in from the kitchen. Dinner was still warm on the stove; she always cooked too much, just in case I suddenly brought home friends I never would.
I added a scar to the monster's jawline.
"You know," she said, setting down the last shirt, "when I was your age, I used to write poems."
I blinked up at her. "Poems?"
She nodded, sitting across from me. "They were terrible. Rhymes about rain and broken hearts. But it made me feel like I could hold something in my hands. Is that what drawing is for you?"
I thought about it. The page, the graphite smudges on my fingers, the way the world felt quieter when I was sketching.
"…Yeah," I said softly. "I guess."
Maria reached over and smoothed my hair like I was still a little kid.
"Then keep drawing," she said. "Even if it's monsters."
The next morning started like every other one. The radio in the kitchen murmured a news report, half static. The kettle hissed, steam fogging the window, while Maria moved between the stove and the sink.
"You're going to forget something one of these days," she said, sliding a plate across the counter—garlic fried rice, egg, and longganisa.
I muttered thanks, ate quietly, then left for school.
Our front door always stuck a little; I had to shove it twice before it closed. The paint around the frame was chipped, and the shoes by the door never lined up. Maria always meant to tidy them, but she was the only one who cared, and there was always something else to do.
My dad used to line them up when he lived here.
That thought slipped in before I could stop it, and I shook it away as I started walking. He'd been gone for years now.
The streets were already filling with uniforms. Packs of students laughed too loud, backpacks bumping against each other, trading snacks and gossip. I walked past them.
I wasn't bullied. I wasn't exactly ignored, either. I just… wasn't there.
School was loud in a way the house never was.
The hallway echoed with a hundred conversations at once. Someone shouted a joke I didn't catch. Someone else was already trying to sell candy from their bag.
I went to class, sat in the second row from the back, and opened my notebook.
The teacher talked about history. I drew in the margins.
A long-legged monster with too many teeth took shape next to notes about trade routes.
At lunch, I didn't join anyone in the cafeteria.
I went to the library instead—the back corner table that no one bothered to sit at.
It wasn't about being shy. It wasn't even about avoiding people.
It was just… quiet there.
I sketched for the entire lunch period.
Another monster. Another scar. Another set of teeth.
By the time the bell rang, I had a page full of claws and eyes staring back at me.
The lavender smell hit me the moment I stepped inside the house that afternoon.
Maria wasn't folding laundry now—she was standing outside on the porch, talking to a neighbor through the gate, one hand shielding her eyes from the late sun.
"Your son's getting taller, Maria," the neighbor called, squinting at me over the fence. "You'll have to buy new uniforms soon."
Maria laughed softly. "If he actually wears out the ones he has before he grows another inch, I'll be surprised."
I ducked past them, into the kitchen. A few turon, banana fritters, were cooling on a plate by the stove.
I heard the scrape of the gate closing a few minutes later, Maria coming back inside, still humming under her breath. She rinsed dishes left in the sink, checked the lock on the back door, and finally sat for a moment, rubbing her temples like she'd been holding up the whole day.
Dinner that night was quiet except for the scrape of forks against plates.
"You should invite someone over one day," she said, almost casually. "There's always too much food for just the two of us."
"I don't think anyone would come," I muttered, not looking up from my plate.
"You don't know that," she said gently.
I didn't reply.
She reached across the table and tapped her finger against my sketch-stained knuckles.
"Then draw them first," she said with a small grin. "Maybe they'll show up."
I almost smiled at that. Almost.
Later that night, we sat on the worn couch, the TV throwing dull light across the living room. Some variety show was playing—canned laughter, over-the-top skits, the kind of noise that filled space more than it entertained.
Maria leaned back, her feet tucked under her, a blanket across her lap.
She watched for a while, quiet, then asked, "Do you ever miss him?"
The question landed heavy, even though her voice was soft.
I didn't answer right away. The host on TV shouted something, the audience roared with fake laughter, and the moment felt too small for the noise around it.
"Sometimes," I said finally.
Maria's eyes didn't leave the screen, but her hand tightened a little on the blanket. "He wasn't… a bad man," she said carefully. "Just someone who didn't want to stay."
I didn't say anything.
She turned to me then, her expression sad but steady. "It's not your fault he left, Aki. It never was."
I felt the pencil marks still faint on my fingertips, the quiet weight of my sketchbook on the coffee table.
"I know," I said, and I almost believed it.
On the TV, the skit ended, the canned laughter faded, and the house fell quiet again except for the hum of the screen and the smell of lavender in the air.
Chapter 1 End