I
The Cabinet Room in Malacañang was thick with smoke. Generals leaned over maps, advisers whispered about growing protests, and files marked "CONFIDENTIAL" cluttered the long table. At the head sat Ferdinand Marcos, his hands steepled, his eyes half-shut as if listening to music no one else could hear.
Imelda sat beside him, pearls glowing in the lamplight. She leaned close, her voice silk but sharp.
"Ferdinand, these rallies will not stop. The students, the journalists, the opposition — they think democracy is a weapon. You must show them it is a leash."
General Enrile cleared his throat. "Sir, intelligence reports show the CPP–NPA is consolidating. The Red Tide grows bolder by the month. If we delay, the Republic may unravel."
Marcos opened his eyes. "The Republic is not unraveling, General. It is merely testing the strength of its threads. And I intend to be the one who decides which threads break — and which remain."
The generals exchanged uneasy glances.
II
Rafael sat in the back of the session, his pen scratching across his journal. He was no longer surprised by the tone of the meetings. The air of caution that once accompanied talks of security had turned into something darker — the air of architects drafting blueprints for power.
Later, he wrote in his journal:
"I see shadows lengthening across the palace halls. The language is no longer one of protection but of control. The generals whisper of communists, the First Lady of order, and the President of permanence. They speak not of terms, but of time without end."
III
Meanwhile, Manila's streets pulsed with energy. By day, students marched from the University Belt to Mendiola, chanting slogans, waving banners. By night, soldiers with batons patrolled the same streets, breaking up gatherings with shouts and truncheons.
One afternoon, Rafael walked through a protest near Plaza Miranda. A young man with fiery eyes, barely twenty, shoved a pamphlet into his hands.
"Sir, read this! We are not enemies of the Republic — we are its children! But your President treats us like bastards."
Rafael studied the paper. Bold letters screamed: 'DOWN WITH TYRANNY, DEFEND FREEDOM!'
Before he could reply, a squad of police charged, scattering the students. Tear gas filled the air. The young man coughed, shouting, "If he will not listen, then we will make him!"
Rafael left with the pamphlet clutched tightly in his hand, the boy's voice still ringing in his ears.
IV
That night, in Marcos' private chambers, Imelda paced like a queen rehearsing for a coronation.
"The people must learn gratitude," she said, her voice sharp. "We gave them bridges, hospitals, schools — yet they repay us with curses and stones. They need to be reminded who holds the power, who gives them bread, who silences hunger."
Marcos leaned back in his chair, watching her. "And how do you propose we remind them?"
She turned to him, eyes blazing. "By making them fear losing everything. By showing them that freedom without order is nothing but anarchy. You can be the man who saves the nation — but only if you dare to rule it without apology."
Marcos smiled faintly. "Rule without apology… yes. Perhaps history loves only those who dare."
V
In Senate halls, whispers spread of "extraordinary powers." Some senators raised their voices in alarm, warning of a slow death of democracy. Others, loyal to Marcos, spoke of stability and discipline.
Ninoy Aquino, fiery as ever, rose to the podium one night and declared:
"The President believes the Republic is weak. I tell you, it is only weak if we strangle it with our own hands. Beware, gentlemen — shadows do not protect a house, they smother it."
Rafael, seated in the gallery, felt the chamber tremble with applause and jeers. He knew Ninoy was right, but he also knew his words were seeds falling on stone.
VI
In his journal that evening, Rafael wrote:
"Imelda builds stages. Marcos builds maps. The generals sharpen their laws like bayonets. The people shout in the streets, but the palace hears only whispers of permanence. The shadows of dictatorship are no longer warnings — they are plans. And once shadows become plans, they rarely fade."
VII
In the markets of Quiapo, fear was sold as cheaply as rice. Vendors leaned closer when they spoke of the latest raids. A mother whispered to another, "Did you hear? A student was taken last night. They say he wrote a pamphlet criticizing the President. His family hasn't seen him since."
The other mother clutched her child's hand tighter. "Better to keep your head down. The walls here have ears."
Nearby, a shoemaker muttered, "This is how it begins. First, they silence the loudest. Soon they will silence even our prayers."
Rafael overheard these words as he moved through the stalls. The air smelled of dried fish and mangoes, yet beneath it all was a stench of dread. He bought nothing that day, only carried home the unease of voices that did not dare rise above a murmur.
VIII
One Sunday, Rafael attended Mass in a church near Tondo. The priest's sermon was careful, wrapped in metaphors.
"We are all vines," the priest said, "but some vines grow so heavy they crush the very trellis that holds them. A trellis may be strong, but if it strangles the vines, what fruit will it bear?"
Everyone understood what he meant, though no names were spoken. Afterward, as the faithful left, soldiers loitered outside the church doors. People bowed their heads, making the sign of the cross, afraid even their faith might be questioned.
A woman beside Rafael whispered, "Soon they will tell us when to pray, what to say, how to breathe."
Rafael nodded but said nothing. He wrote later in his journal:
"The gospel itself trembles under their gaze. Even sermons wear disguises, lest the truth be arrested with the preacher."
IX
In Malacañang, the plans thickened. Generals drew up lists, names of activists, journalists, professors. Each name was accompanied by notes: "agitator," "possible communist," "dangerous to order."
Marcos leafed through them slowly. "These names… they are the first weeds to be pulled when the garden must be preserved."
Enrile shifted uneasily. "But sir, many of these are only critics, not insurgents."
"Critics," Marcos said, "are the dry twigs where fire begins. Better to remove them before the flame spreads."
Imelda added, "And history will remember it not as repression, but as cleansing. A garden must be trimmed to remain beautiful."
The generals nodded reluctantly, though their faces betrayed unease. The palace lights burned long into the night.
X
Rafael walked the streets of Manila, observing the slow transformation of everyday life. Posters of Marcos and Imelda multiplied across walls, smiling portraits with slogans of "Discipline" and "Stability." Radio stations that once aired heated debates now played only patriotic songs and speeches praising the President's vision.
One evening, Rafael stopped at a small newsstand. The vendor leaned close and whispered, "They sent men here last week. Told me I cannot sell certain newspapers anymore. Too critical, they said. Soon, maybe I will only be allowed to sell their faces."
Rafael picked up a copy of the day's paper. On the front page: a smiling Marcos shaking hands with foreign leaders. Buried in the back pages: a two-line note about protests in the provinces, without detail.
He wrote later:
"Truth is no longer killed in the open. It is starved in silence. They bury it under parades and portraits until we forget what hunger feels like."
XI
The countryside, too, grew restless. Reports reached Rafael of peasants being questioned by soldiers, suspected of hiding rebels. In Pampanga, whole families fled to the hills rather than risk interrogation. In Mindanao, whispers spoke of Moro leaders sharpening grievances into weapons.
An old farmer told Rafael, "When the sun sets, we lock our doors not for thieves, but for soldiers. At least thieves only take rice. Soldiers take sons."
Another added, "Hunger we can bear. Fear we cannot."
Rafael carried their words like stones in his chest.
XII
One evening, in his study, Rafael sat alone by lamplight. His journal lay open before him, but his hand hesitated over the page. Outside, Manila hummed with curfews and checkpoints, a city learning to live under invisible chains.
At last, he wrote:
"It is not yet declared, but already it breathes. Martial law is not an edict waiting for ink — it is a shadow already cast across our days. The arrests will come, the curfews will tighten, the presses will fall silent. And the people… the people will endure, as they always have, bending like bamboo but never breaking. Yet I fear this time, the bending may last too long, and when the storm passes, there will be no bamboo left to stand."
He closed the journal, the sound echoing in the silence of the room.
XIII
In cafés and teahouses, the debates continued — soft, cautious, never loud. Some said, "Marcos is strong. He will bring discipline. He will end the chaos." Others shook their heads: "Strength without mercy is tyranny. And tyranny always comes dressed as order."
Rafael listened to both, scribbling notes discreetly. He was determined that history, at least, would not forget these voices.
XIV
The foreshadowing of hardship hung everywhere. Bread grew costlier. Farmers whispered of debt collectors backed by soldiers. Professors vanished from classrooms, their students left without explanation. Journalists submitted their drafts with trembling hands, unsure which sentence might end their careers — or their lives.
Yet, amid this, there were those who still hoped. A student told Rafael one night, "If the Republic is sick, maybe he can cure it. Maybe we need a strong hand, at least for a time."
Rafael answered gently, "A cure that suffocates is not medicine. It is poison disguised as health."
The student said nothing, but Rafael saw the doubt settle behind his eyes.
XV
And so, the Republic moved on, one day at a time, its people unaware of how close the storm truly was. For Marcos, the shadows had become a strategy. For Imelda, they were curtains hiding a stage. For the generals, they were maps for war.
For Rafael, they were warnings carved into memory.
In his final entry for the month, he wrote:
"We walk not toward night, but into it. And when the decree comes, it will not surprise us — for we have been living under its shadow all along. The hardship to come will not be sudden. It is already here, only waiting for its name."