The apartment's walls groaned with the weight of their silence. After the meal, the survivors gathered in a circle around the flickering lantern, heads bowed. Ernesto led them in prayer, his voice soft but steady, weaving scripture with desperate hope.
Ulysses sat outside the circle with the boy, notebook balanced on his knees though he hesitated to write. He felt the weight of their gazes, even when their eyes were closed in prayer. It wasn't hostility, it was expectation.
When the prayer ended, Ernesto turned to him. "You are Ulysses Gonzalez, aren't you?"
The name struck like a bell. Ulysses froze. "How do you know that?"
One of the women spoke up, her voice trembling: "The prophet at the Circle. He said your name. He said you were chosen to witness."
The boy's eyes flicked to him, uncertain, waiting.
Ulysses shook his head quickly. "I'm just a journalist. I write what I see. That's all."
Ernesto leaned forward, candlelight sharpening the lines on his face. "Do you not see that's exactly why you've been chosen? The rest of us, we cling to faith, to scraps of hope. But you… you write. You record. You carry truth in your words. Perhaps your pen is meant for something greater."
The room murmured in agreement. A frail man clasped his hands together. "If the world ends, your testimony will outlive us. It will be the proof."
Ulysses felt his throat tighten. He wanted to protest, to push the mantle away, but the boy's small voice broke in: "Kuya… maybe that's why God kept us alive."
The words lodged deep, painful and undeniable.
He rubbed his temples, suddenly weary. "Listen...I can't be your prophet. I don't even know what I believe anymore."
But Ernesto only smiled sadly, as though pitying him. "Belief is not required of the witness. Only honesty."
The survivors nodded, their eyes soft yet insistent. And in that moment, Ulysses understood: they didn't want him to lead them. They wanted him to validate them, to be the pen that carved their faith into permanence.
The boy leaned closer, whispering, "Kuya… they think you're important."
Ulysses whispered back, "Importance can get you killed."
Yet as the night deepened and the prayers resumed, Ulysses sat there with his pen hovering over the page, caught between two truths: his fear of being consumed by their faith, and his guilt at denying them the hope they so desperately clung to.
The red moon glared faintly through the cracked window. Ulysses stared at it, feeling its weight, and wrote four words almost against his will:
The world bears witness.
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End of Chapter 27