Emma was unraveling.
Days in Baguio blurred together, swallowed by mist and silence. She would wake in the cabin late, wander through pine trails until the sun sank, and return as if she had been sleepwalking. Meals sat untouched. Some afternoons she would burst into tears for no reason, her sobs echoing off the pine walls until she wore herself out.
Once, she walked so far into the woods she lost track of time. The sky had already turned indigo before she realized she no longer knew the way back. Her pulse raced—again? Lost, again?—but she managed to retrace her steps, clutching her jacket tight. The whole way back, one thought gnawed at her:
That centaur… that wasn't the first time I saw him. Why does it feel familiar?
And there was the dream. Vivid, recurring. She had dreamt of a centaur for a year now, only it had faded when she and Adrian began dating. Seeing him transform had ripped the memory open again, sharp and undeniable.
That night, sitting on the porch with her face buried in her hands, she whispered to Mariel over the phone.
"There's something missing in me," she said vaguely, voice hoarse. "A piece of memory I can't touch. It's like… I've lived this before. But I can't understand why."
Mariel's silence hummed on the line, patient, listening. Finally, she said, "You need help unlocking it. There's a hypnotherapist here in Baguio my family trusts. She works with trauma, with memory. Try it. If you're desperate enough to keep hurting, why not be desperate enough to heal?"
Emma's pride bristled. Hypnotherapy sounded absurd. But the desperation won. "Fine," she whispered. "I'll try."
The hypnotherapist was a calm woman in her fifties, her office lined with pine carvings and soft lights. She explained everything clinically, not mystical at all.
"Your subconscious holds what your waking mind suppresses. I'll guide you there. You'll be safe the entire time. If you want to stop, we stop. But sometimes, Emma, the only way out is through."
Emma lay back on the reclined chair, palms sweating. The hum of pine resin incense filled the air—Mariel's aunts had prepared it, though the therapist never mentioned it.
"Close your eyes. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Good. Now imagine a door…"
Emma drifted.
At first, nothing. Then—forest.
She was 14 again, lost among towering trees. Her throat was raw from crying. Hunger twisted her stomach. The night pressed in, heavy and endless.
"Someone help me," her young voice cracked.
And then, the sound of hooves.
She turned. A figure emerged from the shadows. Not a man. Not an animal. Both. A Kabalan. His height terrified her, the glint of his eyes made her press back against a tree.
But then… he knelt. Lowered his great frame until his eyes were level with hers. His voice was deep but gentle.
"Don't be afraid. I'll keep you safe."
He wrapped her in warmth—his cloak, his presence—and told her stories. She remembered falling asleep against him, his voice weaving comfort until the dark no longer seemed endless.
When dawn broke, he pressed something into her palm. A small compass.
She gasped aloud in the chair. Her lips moved. "It was him. Adrian. All along."
Tears streamed down her cheeks as the vision burned away.
Emma woke trembling, breath ragged. The hypnotherapist gave her water, calm as ever. "You did well. You found what your mind hid."
But it was Mariel's aunts who gathered her after, guiding her to the porch, settling her under blankets. Their eyes shone with something ageless, knowing.
"You've come back to yourself," one of them said softly. "Memory is your compass. It has always been."
For the first time in weeks, Emma smiled faintly. It wasn't joy, not yet, but clarity. The fog in her chest had lifted.
To celebrate, the aunts lit lanterns on the porch that evening, skewered meat sizzling over a small grill. They ate barbecue, pancit, and sweet rice cakes, the air cool with mountain breeze. Someone poured drinks—light wine made from local strawberries.
Emma laughed for the first time in weeks, cheeks warm from the wine. The aunts leaned close, their voices weaving together like song.
"Let us tell you a story," said the eldest.
"Once, there was a woman named Lotlot," another began. "She was loved by a man of the lowlands. They married, had a son. But Lotlot was no ordinary woman—her blood sang with the forest. She carried the gift of the diwata."
Emma froze, food forgotten on her plate.
"The gift sometimes skips," the aunt continued, "like a stone that leaps across water. It skipped her son, but not his child. The blood flowed into the granddaughter instead. Into you, Emma."
Her breath caught. "Into… me?"
They smiled serenely. "That is why you heal, why you endure, why the forest never frightened you, only called to you. You are diwata-born. Human, yes—but more than human. The one who saved you knew it. That is why he never left your side."
Emma bowed her head, tears spilling silently. The barbecue smoke curled around them, the night alive with crickets and pine-scented wind.
For the first time, she didn't feel broken. She felt chosen