Dawn crept slowly over Manila, but it brought no light. The clouds hung low, churning with an unnatural glow, as if the sky itself was restless. The red moon still lingered, pale now, but undeniable. People no longer treated it as a curiosity—they averted their eyes, whispering that to stare too long was to invite madness.
In the camp, silence weighed heavier than hunger. Families huddled close, avoiding soldiers, avoiding one another. The memory of yesterday's clash lingered in bruises and bloodstains across the grass. No one trusted their neighbors anymore; no one trusted the government either. And yet, whispers of the prophet's words fluttered everywhere like restless birds.
Ulysses woke stiff, the boy curled against his side. He watched the child sleep for a moment, marveling at the quiet resilience in his small chest rising and falling. In a world cracking apart, this boy still breathed, still lived.
But when the boy stirred awake, his first words were not about food or safety. He looked Ulysses in the eye and asked, "Kuya… what if the prophet is right?"
The question was like a knife. Ulysses sat up, rubbing his face, searching for the journalist in himself—the one who relied on facts, on sources, on tangible truth. "He's saying what people want to hear," Ulysses answered finally. "That's why they listen."
The boy frowned. "But what if it's not just what they want? What if it's real?"
Ulysses opened his mouth, then closed it. His mind flashed back to the thunderclap timed perfectly with the prophet's words, the way soldiers had faltered, the way the camp had turned its gaze to him as if destiny had reached out and touched his shoulder. He hated how the memory made his skin prickle.
Instead of answering, he dug into his bag for what little remained of their ration. He tore the packet in half, handing the boy a share. "Eat first. Questions later."
But the boy wasn't so easily silenced. Between bites, he said quietly, "You write everything down. Maybe that's why he said you're important. Maybe… maybe you're supposed to write what God is doing."
Ulysses nearly choked. "God doesn't need me. He's got prophets shouting on every corner."
"But maybe He picked you because you don't believe yet," the boy said simply. His dark eyes held no malice, no manipulation—just raw sincerity.
Ulysses had no reply. He stared at the crumpled ration wrapper in his hands and felt an ache in his chest. The boy's words unsettled him more than the prophet's ever could.
A horn blared at the edge of the camp, jolting everyone upright. A convoy of military trucks rumbled down the avenue, engines growling, tires crushing broken glass. Soldiers barked orders, announcing a relocation effort—those willing to leave would be moved to an "emergency shelter" farther inland.
The camp buzzed with fearful debate. Go, and risk being herded into the unknown? Stay, and face hunger, chaos, and prophets who stirred the crowd to fire?
Ulysses squeezed the boy's hand. A decision loomed, and he wasn't sure which choice would damn them less.
---
End of Chapter 21