Emma tossed and turned through the night. The house was quiet, too quiet, the kind of silence that made her chest ache with loneliness. The scent of her grandmother's clothes still lingered in the room, faint camphor and lavender soap, and maybe that was what pulled her dreams toward the past.
In the dream, she was lost again.
The trees closed in around her, the shadows taller than they should be. Her younger self's panic echoed in her chest, but she wasn't a girl anymore. She was her thirty-four-year-old self wandering the same path, barefoot, her hair heavy against her back. The forest breathed around her.
And then, in the clearing, something moved.
A figure, tall and otherworldly. Human, yet not. Horse hooves struck the ground, but above them rose the form of a man, broad-shouldered and strong. His face was blurred, as though she looked through smoke or water, but his presence was undeniable.
A kabalan.
Emma's heart thundered. The word rose unbidden, one she had not thought in years. A kabalan from her grandmother's bedtime stories, from that one summer she swore she'd met one.
The figure leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear though his face remained shadow. "Don't get lost," he murmured.
She gasped and woke.
The morning light streamed weakly through the window. Emma sat up, her heart pounding as though she had run miles. She pressed her palms to her face, trying to shake the image, but it clung stubbornly, the blurred features refusing to dissolve.
It was just a dream, she told herself. And yet, why did it feel like a memory?
The clock on the wall read a little past six. Her stomach growled, reminding her that the house was empty, the pantry barer than she'd realized. Her grandmother had lived simply, relying on the sari-sari store down the road and the bakery by the plaza.
Emma dressed quickly in jeans and a plain shirt, tied her hair back, and slipped outside. The air smelled of dew and smoke from early morning cooking fires. Roosters crowed in chorus with distant radios playing tinny love songs. She walked briskly toward the bakery, thinking only of warm pandesal, a smear of mayo and cheese, and the sharp wake of instant coffee.
But just before she reached the bakery, she noticed a crowd.
People huddled in a tight circle in front of Ka Ipe's house. Emma's first instinct was to keep walking—village gossip wasn't her concern—but curiosity tugged at her. She slowed her pace.
Before she could peek through the gap, an old woman spotted her.
"Hay, salamat, doktora, nandito ka!" the woman cried, waving frantically. "Hinimatay ang anak ni Ka Ipe—buntis pa naman!"
Emma's spine straightened. Her training clicked in before she even thought about it. She pushed through the crowd, dropping to her knees beside the collapsed young woman.
"Give me space," Emma ordered, her voice calm but firm. The villagers obeyed, stepping back.
She checked the woman's pulse—weak, thready. Skin clammy. She pressed her stethoscope to the chest, counting. Blood pressure cuff next—165/90. Too high. She recognized the signs: a pregnant woman on the verge of serious complication.
"Someone call 8888!" Emma barked. "Tell them we need an ambulance now!"
A man sprinted off, phone pressed to his ear.
Emma supported the young woman's head, checking her breathing, murmuring reassurances though she was unconscious. A few women hovered nervously. "She's only twenty-eight," one whispered. "First baby. Newly married."
Emma pressed her lips together. "We'll get her to the hospital. Don't worry."
Within minutes, the barangay ambulance screeched to a halt. Two aides jumped out with a stretcher. Emma guided them, helping secure the patient. "I'm riding with her," she announced. "She needs constant monitoring."
The villagers nodded, relief flooding their faces.
Inside the ambulance, Emma continued her checks. "Low pulse, elevated BP, clammy skin," she told the aides. "Possible preeclampsia. First pregnancy?"
The woman's mother, Ka Celia, had rushed aboard too, tears streaking her cheeks. "Yes, doktora. Monette is only twenty-eight. Her husband's in Saudi. He left just a few months ago. First baby…"
Emma squeezed her shoulder. "We'll take care of her."
She set to work—checking reflexes, noting vitals, elevating the woman's legs slightly. Her hands moved with practiced efficiency, the years of residency and night shifts guiding her.
Then she looked up—straight into the rearview mirror.
A pair of eyes met hers.
Familiar. Steady. Dark as the forest at night.
Emma's breath hitched.
"Good morning, doc," Adrian said from the driver's seat, voice maddeningly calm, almost amused.
Emma froze for a second, then forced herself to nod curtly. "Morning," she muttered, focusing back on Monette. Her heart, however, beat far too fast.
Why was he everywhere?
At the hospital, the emergency team rushed Monette in. Emma handed off her notes quickly, briefing them with clipped professionalism: "Low pulse, BP 165/90, first pregnancy, unresponsive episode. Suspect preeclampsia. Stabilize and monitor closely."
The doctors nodded, taking over. Emma stepped back, suddenly aware of how dry her mouth was. She hadn't even had coffee yet.
When she exited through the ER doors, the sight that greeted her made her pause.
The ambulance waited outside, engine idling. And leaning casually against the driver's door was Adrian.
He whistled low, catching her eye.
Emma blinked.
He beckoned.
Something inside her tightened, a mix of irritation and intrigue. Against her better judgment, she walked over.
"Let's go back," he said simply, opening the passenger door. "Ride with me."
Emma hesitated only a moment before climbing in. The door shut with a final thump.
As they pulled away, Adrian glanced sideways. "Had your coffee yet?"
Emma exhaled, leaning back in her seat. "No. I was on my way to buy pandesal when I chanced on Monette."
His lips curved into that infuriating half-smile. "Then it's fate."
She frowned. "Fate?"
"There's a bakery I know near here," he said smoothly. "They have the best coffee. Strong enough to wake even the most tired doctor."
Emma stared at him. "You're full of surprises, aren't you?"
"Not surprises," Adrian said softly, eyes still fixed on the road. "Just… reminders."
The words sent a shiver through her, though she didn't know why. She clutched her bag tighter, glancing at him again. His profile was strong, familiar in ways she couldn't place, as if she'd seen it before—in a dream, in a story, in the forest.
And as the ambulance rumbled toward the bakery, Emma couldn't shake the image from her dream: the kabalan's blurred face, the voice whispering Don't get lost.
Now, beside Adrian, she wasn't sure if she was still dreaming.
Julie's Bakery was already buzzing by the time they pulled up. The smell hit Emma the second she stepped down from the ambulance: warm yeast, sugar, butter, coffee. A line of customers wove toward the glass counter, trays stacked high with steaming pandesal, golden ensaymada dripping with cheese, and soft rolls dusted with flour.
Adrian held the door for her. "After you, doc."
She gave him a sidelong look but entered anyway, her stomach growling traitorously. She hadn't realized how hungry she was until now.
They ordered quickly: two cups of barako coffee, thick and dark, and a plate piled with pandesal, ensaymada oozing with cream cheese, and a slice of Spanish bread. Adrian insisted she take the last seat by the window, while he leaned against the wall, comfortable even in silence.
The first sip of coffee nearly made Emma groan aloud. Strong, bitter, rich—the kind of coffee that clung to your throat and jolted you awake. "This," she muttered, "is what I've been needing all morning."
Adrian smiled faintly. "I told you. Fate."
She tore a piece of pandesal, stuffed with mayo and cheese, and sighed. "You always talk like that—fate, reminders, destiny. Don't you ever just say good breakfast?"
"I could," he said, eyes glinting. "But wouldn't that be boring?"
Emma shook her head, biting into the ensaymada. It was obscene, the way the cheese melted with cream, sweet and salty at once. "You know," she said, licking sugar from her finger, "if my patients ate this much cheese I'd scold them for their cholesterol."
"And yet," Adrian said smoothly, "you're eating it."
She rolled her eyes but didn't stop. The truth was, she felt lighter than she had in days, sipping coffee and trading words with this infuriatingly calm man.
When they stepped back outside, the sun had climbed higher, bathing the plaza in golden heat. And there, at the corner, a vendor's call rang out:
"Tahoooo! Taho!"
Emma's eyes lit up. "Oh, I haven't had taho in years." She hurried over, buying two cups with extra sago.
She handed one to Adrian. "Here."
But he shook his head, lips quirking. "I can't. I'm allergic to soy."
Emma blinked. "Seriously? You're Filipino and allergic to soy?"
He shrugged, amused. "We all have our weaknesses."
"Well, more for me." Without hesitation, she tilted back the first cup, gulping it down. Sweet syrup, soft tofu, chewy sago—her childhood in a cup. She downed the second just as quickly, ignoring Adrian's raised brow. "What? Don't look at me like that. Breakfast of champions."
He chuckled. "I didn't say anything."
Back at the ambulance, Emma expected him to climb into the driver's seat. Instead, he stopped by the door, keys dangling from his finger.
"Do you know how to drive, doc?" he asked casually.
She frowned. "Of course I do."
"License?"
"Yes," she said slowly.
"Good." He tossed the keys at her in one smooth motion. She caught them by reflex, startled.
"Nice catch," Adrian said with that half-smile. "No going back now."
"Wait—what do you mean no going back?"
"I'm late for work," he said simply, stepping back. "Return this to the barangay and don't forget to thank Kap."
And before she could protest, he was gone. Just—gone.
Emma stood by the open ambulance door, keys clutched in her hand, the echo of his words ringing in her ears.
No going back now.