I
The rains had come early that year. Manila's streets shimmered with puddles, neon lights reflecting off broken asphalt as if the city itself were fractured into a thousand trembling pieces. Rafael dela Cruz walked slowly along Avenida Rizal, his cane tapping against the wet stone. The city moved with nervous energy: students marching with banners, soldiers watching with wary eyes, and whispers that political killings had become as common as the rain.
In a café near Quiapo, Rafael sat across from Alejandro Santiago, his cousin and now a journalist. Alejandro's notebook was cluttered with names—some of the dead, some of the accused. He kept his voice low.
Alejandro: "Three assassinations this month alone. Councilors, union leaders, even priests. No arrests, no answers. Do you see what this means, Kuya? It means silence is being bought with bullets."
Rafael: (stirring his coffee) "Or perhaps silence was never bought. Perhaps it was always stolen."
Alejandro sighed, scribbling another line. "The people are angry, but anger without direction is a mob. Someone will use it soon—someone clever, someone ruthless."
Outside, the rain thickened. Somewhere in the distance, a gunshot cracked. No one even flinched anymore.
II
At the gates of the University of the Philippines, students chanted slogans beneath dripping banners. The air smelled of wet paint and cigarette smoke. A young man stood at the front, his voice cutting through the storm.
Student Leader: "We march because our country bleeds! We march because every barrio drowns in hunger while politicians drown in whiskey!"
The crowd roared. Rafael, leaning on his cane, watched quietly from the edge. He saw in their faces the same fire he had once carried as a young revolutionary. But the fire now had new fuel: disillusionment, betrayal, assassinations that turned democracy into theatre.
A young woman handed out mimeographed leaflets. When Rafael took one, she looked at him with fierce, almost defiant eyes.
Young Woman: "Are you one of them? The politicians?"
Rafael: (smiling faintly) "No. Just an old soldier watching the young take up the fight."
Her gaze softened. "Then don't just watch, Lolo. Speak. Too many of our leaders are being silenced. If men like you fall quiet, who will remain?"
Her words cut deep. Rafael folded the leaflet and slipped it into his coat.
III
That night, in a dimly lit club in Ermita, the city's powerful drank and laughed, safe behind bodyguards and velvet curtains. Deals were made in whispers. Land, contracts, elections—all bought like cheap wine.
From the corner, Rafael listened as two congressmen argued heatedly over the latest killing.
Congressman 1: "It was the communists, I tell you. They want chaos, they want fear."
Congressman 2: "Nonsense. It was one of us. Power struggles. Greed. Don't blame ghosts when the knife is in your own family's hand."
The laughter at the table fell silent. No one wanted to admit what everyone knew: Manila had become a city where death answered faster than justice.
Rafael rose and left, the smoke choking his lungs. Outside, lightning flashed over the bay. Storm clouds rolled in, black and heavy.
IV
A week later, Alejandro invited Rafael to a wake in Tondo. A union leader had been shot in broad daylight, gunned down in front of his wife and children. The coffin lay in a small chapel, candles flickering, the air thick with grief.
Isabela Santiago, now older, her hair streaked with silver, stood with the widow. She whispered prayers, but her eyes blazed with the same fire of her youth.
Isabela: "How many more, Rafael? How many must die before this Republic realizes that freedom cannot survive on blood alone?"
Rafael looked at the dead man's face, waxen and still. He thought of all the funerals he had attended since the revolution began decades ago. Too many. Always too many.
Rafael: "The storm has already broken, Isabela. It is no longer about when. It is about who will seize the thunder."
The widow wailed, clutching her children. Outside, rain poured like tears from the heavens.
The mourners whispered quietly among themselves, some swearing vengeance, others whispering names of possible assassins. Rumors hung in the air like smoke: warlords, rivals, secret police. No one dared speak too loud.
Isabela turned to Rafael again. "Promise me, cousin, promise me you'll write this down. If the newspapers won't print it, then at least history must remember."
Rafael nodded. "History will not forget. Not while I still breathe."
V
Weeks later, another name was added to Alejandro's notebook. A young mayor from Cavite, gunned down on the road. The press blamed communists. The opposition blamed the ruling party. No one believed the lies anymore, but no one dared speak truth aloud.
In his small study, Rafael sat by candlelight, writing in his journal. His words trembled on the page:
"I once believed the greatest enemy was foreign occupation. Now I see the enemy wears our own colors, speaks our own tongue. Assassinations have replaced debate, fear has replaced discourse. I pray the Republic survives this storm. But I fear… the storm has no intention of passing."
He paused, staring at the flame of the candle. Outside, thunder rolled. In the street below, a carriage rattled past, the driver glancing nervously into the shadows.
Rafael dipped his pen again and wrote: "If one man rises to promise order out of this chaos, the people may follow him blindly, even if the price is freedom."
He shut the journal with a heavy sigh. The sound felt like a verdict.
VI
On the night before the next elections, Rafael walked along the Pasig River. Lanterns floated in the distance, their reflections rippling like fragile hopes across the black water. A group of young men passed him, carrying campaign posters. One of them stopped, recognizing him.
Young Man: "Sir Rafael! They say the future belongs to Marcos. Do you believe it?"
Rafael studied the boy's hopeful face. "The future belongs to whoever survives the storm. But storms do not ask who is worthy—they only destroy."
The boy frowned but said nothing. He walked on, his posters fluttering in the wind.
Rafael lingered by the river, the storm clouds gathering again above Manila. He whispered into the night:
Rafael: "God help us. The Republic is bleeding, and the vultures are already circling."
Lightning cracked. The storm over Manila had only just begun.
VII
A few days later, Rafael attended a small gathering in a law office in Intramuros. Politicians, journalists, and students sat in a circle, debating the violence gripping the city. A young lawyer, sharp-eyed and confident, leaned forward.
Lawyer: "The killings prove one thing: the Republic is weak. Weak institutions, weak will. We need a leader who can impose discipline, someone who can keep order with a firm hand."
The room erupted in arguments. Some shouted that liberty was more important than order; others shouted back that liberty meant nothing if one could be gunned down in daylight.
Rafael sat silently, listening. He knew these words were seeds, and seeds could grow into terrible things if planted in the soil of fear.
At last he spoke: "Beware of the man who promises peace through silence. For silence is not peace—it is the grave."
The room quieted. But outside, in the dark alleys of Manila, another gunshot rang out.
VIII
The weeks bled into months. Manila carried on, but beneath its noisy jeepneys and crowded markets, fear lingered like an invisible fog. Each new assassination became less shocking, almost expected. Life adjusted to death.
Rafael sat one evening on the veranda of Alejandro's home. The journalist's typewriter clicked endlessly in the background, each strike a bullet of truth aimed at a target no one dared confront. Rafael watched the street, where children still played in the rain, chasing paper boats down gutters swollen with water. Life, stubborn as grass, refused to wither.
Alejandro: (pausing, rubbing his eyes) "I write and I write, Kuya, but will it matter? Tomorrow, another will die, and the people will still cheer for whoever promises them bread and quiet nights."
Rafael: (quietly) "Words matter more than bullets. Bullets kill a man; words outlive him. But… I fear even words will not stop what is coming."
Alejandro looked at him, uneasy. "You speak as if you already see the future."
Rafael tapped his cane against the wooden floor, his gaze heavy on the horizon. "I see a man rising, Alejandro. He will offer discipline, order, strength. The people will mistake it for salvation."
A long silence fell, broken only by the rain on the roof. Somewhere in the city, church bells tolled—not for a wedding, not for a feast, but for yet another funeral.
Rafael whispered almost to himself: "The storm over Manila is not the end. It is only the beginning."
The night deepened, thunder rolling far over the bay. Rafael remained seated, his silhouette framed against the glow of Manila's restless lights.
He closed his journal and whispered into the darkness, not for anyone to hear but for history itself:
"When the storm finally breaks, it will not be rain that falls—it will be silence, imposed by fear. And silence, I fear, is deadlier than war."
The storm outside answered with a flash of lightning.