Emma always remembered her mother as sharp-voiced, impatient, always comparing.
"You look more like your father's side," she used to say, staring at Emma as if that were a flaw. "Your lola Laura… always so beautiful, always so loved. Everywhere she went, people praised her. Do you know how tiring that is, Emma? To always be compared? Even you—everyone says you're prettier than me. Do you know how insulting that is?"
Emma would stand silently in the doorway of her childhood home, never sure what answer could calm the bitterness in her mother's voice. Her father never intervened. He would only sigh and retreat into his study, leaving Emma caught between the shadows of two women: one adored but distant, the other present but cold.
The only constant was the rule: Never go to Panganiban.
"There's nothing there for you," her mother would snap. "Forget that place."
And Emma did forget—at least, she tried. Until now.
The plaza of Panganiban on a Saturday morning was alive with its usual rhythm. Vendors hawked vegetables and dried fish, children ran after each other with sticks and kites, the bell from the chapel tolled the hour. Emma carried a small basket, weaving between stalls, buying tomatoes and talbos ng kamote, answering smiles and greetings of Doktora with polite nods.
She had almost reached the fountain when a voice called out: "Magandang umaga, iha." (Good morning, child.)
Emma turned.
A woman stood by the fountain, her figure bent with age, a cane resting in her hand. Yet her eyes betrayed her: too sharp, too alive. Even with streaks of silver in her long hair, she seemed almost regal, as though the frailty was only a costume she could shrug off at will.
"Hello po," Emma said, adjusting her basket.
The woman smiled. "Ikaw ba si Emma? Apo ka ni Lotlot, hindi ba?" (Are you Emma? Lotlot's granddaughter, right?)
Emma blinked in surprise. "Opo. You knew my lola?"
"Knew?" The woman chuckled softly. "Ah, your lola and I would sit here often, back when I was younger. Always beautiful, always loving. She carried light in her hands. People never forgot her."
A pang rose in Emma's chest. Those were not words her own mother would ever use.
"She was… the best," Emma said quietly.
The woman tilted her head. "You look like her. And yet, there's something else in you. A restlessness. A question you don't know how to ask."
Emma frowned, confused. "I don't understand."
"Not yet," the woman said, tapping her cane gently on the stone. "But you will. Come, child. Visit me. Have tea. My house is near. Your lola used to visit often."
Emma hesitated. She should go home. She had work to finish, things to organize. But something in the old woman's voice was both commanding and kind, impossible to refuse.
She nodded. "Okay po. Lead the way."
The old woman's house was a small nipa hut at the edge of town, shaded by a mango tree. Inside, it smelled of herbs and ginger, of something old and comforting.
"Sit," the woman said, pointing to a wooden chair.
Emma sat, placing her basket on the floor. She watched as the woman lit a small clay stove, dropped slices of fresh ginger into a pot of boiling water, and added a spoonful of wild honey. The aroma filled the room, warm and sharp.
"Salabat," the woman said, pouring the tea into a clay cup. "Good for the body, better for the soul."
Emma accepted it with both hands. The first sip was strong, biting, but softened by the honey. Heat spread through her chest, down to her fingertips.
"You work at the hospital now," the woman said conversationally.
"Yes," Emma said. "OB-GYN."
The woman's smile deepened. "Ah. You bring life into the world. Just like your lola… though in a different way."
Emma frowned again. "You keep mentioning her. Did you really know her?"
The woman leaned on her cane, studying Emma with eyes that seemed older than her face. "Child, your lola carried something rare. She was different. People who met her always felt lighter. You have some of that too. Dreams will show you, if you let them."
Emma shifted uncomfortably. "Dreams?"
"Don't be afraid when they come," the woman said simply. "Drink your tea."
Emma sipped again, warmth flooding her limbs. Her eyelids grew heavy, though she had slept well the night before. The old woman's voice blurred into the sound of the stove crackling, the rustle of leaves outside.
"Rest now," the woman murmured. "Dream."
Emma dreamed.
She was barefoot, standing in the forest. But it wasn't the forest she knew—it glowed faintly, every leaf lit from within, fireflies spinning in thick constellations around her. The air thrummed with energy, alive and watchful.
She walked without fear, guided by some invisible pull. The ground was cool beneath her feet, the path lined with flowers that opened as she passed.
And then, the clearing.
He was there.
Adrian—no, not Adrian. Lakan.
His form was magnificent, terrifying, and familiar all at once. His upper body was human, tall and strong, hair falling in a dark mane, eyes glowing like coals. From the waist down, the body of a great horse gleamed under moonlight, muscles rippling with power.
A Kabalan.
Emma froze, breath caught in her chest. She should have been afraid, but instead her heart ached with recognition. She knew him. Not from waking life, but from somewhere deeper, older.
He turned, eyes locking on hers.
"Emma," he said, his voice like thunder softened by rain.
She stepped forward, tears stinging her eyes though she didn't know why. "I know you," she whispered.
"At last, you've come home."
Her hand lifted, trembling. His arm extended. Their fingers reached across the glowing air, almost touching. The space between them sparked like lightning.
And then—the forest shook. Light flared too bright, swallowing them both.
Emma gasped—
She woke in her grandmother's bed, the morning light golden through the curtains. Her chest heaved, her skin tingled as though still charged.
On the bedside table, the compass trembled. The needle quivered, pointing toward the forest.
Emma pressed a hand to her lips. It had only been a dream.
But she remembered every detail, clear as daylight.
She sat for a long time, listening to the silence of the house, the echo of the forest still humming in her veins.
"Why did it feel so real?" she whispered.
The compass gave no answer, but the needle still trembled, insistent, unrelenting.