The following morning dawned gray, though the red moon still hung in the sky, refusing to yield to the sun. Its light bled through the clouds, tinting everything in shades of rust. The city smelled of brine and rot. Manila had survived the night, but barely.
Ulysses sat on the roof of a half-submerged building, the boy asleep against his chest. The child's tiny fists clutched Ulysses's shirt even in slumber, as if letting go meant death. Ulysses had barely closed his eyes since the flood.
His phone buzzed weakly, battery nearly gone. Text messages poured in from colleagues at work. Some begged him for eyewitness reports. Others admitted they hadn't heard from family in hours. A final one from his editor simply read: "Global emergency. File anything you can. People need to know."
Global emergency. The words chilled him.
He scanned what little signal remained and pulled up international news feeds. Images streamed across the cracked screen:
– New York Harbor engulfed in water, skyscrapers shrouded in smoke.
– Venice drowned completely, gondolas carried into the Alps by waves.
– Tokyo in darkness, its coast shattered.
– Sydney under martial law, soldiers firing into panicked crowds.
Every headline screamed the same truth: the seas had risen everywhere. Nations trembled. Borders collapsed under the weight of disaster.
Ulysses rubbed his face, gritty with salt and exhaustion. He felt small—just one man clinging to survival on a rooftop in Manila—yet his words might be one of the few threads binding the world together. He opened his notebook, water-stained but still usable, and wrote:
The earth shakes. The seas roar. No nation is spared. It is not a storm, nor a season. It is something deeper, older, and it has begun everywhere at once.
The boy stirred, mumbling. Ulysses laid a hand on his back. "Rest, kid. You're safe here for now."
But he knew safety was a lie. The air itself vibrated with unease, as if the city were waiting for the next blow.
A helicopter passed overhead, its rotors chopping the air. Soldiers leaned out, shouting through megaphones that survivors should head north, away from the bay. Relief camps were being set up near Quezon Memorial Circle.
Ulysses hesitated. Going inland meant abandoning the story at the bay—but staying meant risking the boy's life. His chest tightened. Journalism had always demanded sacrifice. But now he wasn't sure if he could keep sacrificing others for the sake of words.
He whispered to himself, half a prayer, half a promise: "Lord, give me the strength to do both."
Then he lifted the boy into his arms, and together they began the long walk inland—toward a nation already fracturing under the weight of fear.
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End of Chapter 13