The ceiling fan spun in slow, uneven circles, creaking like it had a story it wanted to tell.
Estobaner woke to the sound of rain tapping against the window, a steady, patient rhythm that filled the room. The house was dim—only the faint yellow light from the streetlamp outside seeped through the curtains, tracing pale lines across the floor.
His chest felt tight.
Not from a nightmare exactly, but from something heavier. Something old.
Meowth was curled at his feet, ears flicking at every drip from the roof. Estobaner pushed himself up, the bedsheet clinging to his arm. The air carried that damp, sea-salted chill Guam nights were known for. The kind of cold that didn't freeze you, but lingered—like a hand on your shoulder.
His eyes fell to his hands.
The fabric was still there.
His mother's dress. The same one she wore that day. He'd fallen asleep clutching it against his chest like a lifeline, and now it was wrinkled, damp with the salt of dried tears.
The ceiling fan groaned softly above him, cutting through the silence like a slow heartbeat. Outside, the rain tapped against the window in a steady rhythm. It was still dark, but not the kind of dark that held dreams—this one just pressed down.
Meowth shifted at the foot of his bed, lifting its head as if it, too, could feel the weight.
He sat there for a while, staring at the fabric between his fingers, letting the weight of the night settle in his chest.
"Estobaner!"
Grandma Felicia's voice floated up the stairs—warm, a little tired, but steady. "Come down, niño. Lunch is ready!"
He didn't answer right away. The smell of warm soup and garlic rice drifted through the hallway, soft and familiar, trying to tug him back to the present.
Meowth hopped off the bed first, giving a soft "mrrp" before trotting toward the door like it understood more than it should.
Estobaner exhaled slowly, folded the dress as carefully as if it might break, and set it down beside his pillow. His feet met the cold floorboards with a quiet creak.
"Estobaner," Grandma Felicia called again, gentler this time. "It'll get cold."
He rubbed at his eyes, pushed the hair from his face, and forced himself to stand.
Estobaner rubbed at his eyes as he stepped out of his room, the soft fabric of his mother's dress still clutched loosely in one hand. He hadn't meant to fall asleep holding it. But somewhere between the quiet hum of the ceiling fan and the ache in his chest, sleep had come anyway.
The stairs creaked softly beneath his feet, sunlight spilling through the narrow hallway like gold dust. He blinked against the brightness.
Downstairs, the smell of fried fish and garlic rice filled the air, warm and familiar—so different from the cold weight that had lingered in his room.
Grandpa Normad sat at the table, newspaper folded beside his plate, already halfway through his breakfast. He didn't look up immediately, just muttered around a mouthful of food, "Finally awake, huh."
Grandma Felicia glanced over from the stove. "Slow morning, niño?" she said gently, her voice wrapped in warmth.
Estobaner slid into the chair across from Normad. Meowth hopped up onto the spare seat, tail flicking lazily as if it too belonged there.
Felicia set a plate down in front of him, the clatter of porcelain soft but grounding. "You were out cold," she added with a small smile. "Didn't even stir when I checked on you."
Estobaner lowered his gaze to the plate, his fingers unconsciously tightening around the hem of the faded dress in his lap. The fabric still smelled faintly like sunlight and sea salt.
Normad cleared his throat softly, pretending to focus on his food. "She'd scold you for sleeping in like that," he said, voice rougher but quieter than usual.
The words hit like a pebble dropped into still water. Small. But enough to ripple through him.
Estobaner forced a small breath through his nose. "Yeah," he murmured. "She would."
For a heartbeat, silence settled between them. Felicia's hands slowed over the stove. Normad's fork paused halfway to his mouth. None of them said her name—but they didn't need to.
And somewhere beneath that silence, another thought slipped in uninvited—about the man who wasn't there. The father who never sat at this table. The empty chair that had always been just that: empty.
Estobaner pushed his fork into the rice, the weight in his chest stirring again.
Felicia turned, her smile soft but fragile at the edges. "Eat up, niño. It's a good day to start warm."
He nodded once, slowly. "Yeah… okay."
Estobaner pushed his rice around with the fork for a while before taking a bite. The warmth of the food sat heavy on his tongue, but it didn't chase away the feeling in his chest.
Felicia's soft hum filled the kitchen as she moved about, the sound of pans clinking faintly against the stove. Normad turned the newspaper over, pretending to read though his eyes hadn't moved from the same line in a while.
Estobaner's fingers found the fabric of his mother's dress again under the table. He stared at the faint yellow edge for a long second before the words slipped out.
"Grandpa… Grandma."
Felicia glanced over her shoulder, eyebrows lifting slightly at the tone. Normad lowered the paper, slow and wary.
Estobaner swallowed, then asked quietly, "Did you ever… hear anything from him? About Dad?"
The kitchen went still.
No clatter. No hum. Just the distant sound of a passing car outside.
Felicia's hand lingered on the stove handle, knuckles pale. Normad's jaw tightened, the lines around his mouth hardening.
"He's your father," Normad said finally. His voice wasn't angry—just… heavy. Like a weight he'd carried too long.
Estobaner's throat felt dry. "I know. But…" He hesitated. "You're his parents. You must've—"
"We haven't heard a word," Felicia cut in gently, her voice quiet, almost like she was trying to soften something sharp. She turned fully toward him, eyes lined with something too old to be called sadness. "Not for a very long time, niño."
Normad folded the newspaper, setting it down with more care than usual. "He left before you were born," he said, the words clipped. "Your mother… she waited."
The mention of her made Estobaner's chest tighten.
Felicia crossed the room and placed a hand on his shoulder, warm but trembling slightly. "She loved him, Esto. That never changed. But sometimes…" She trailed off, searching for the right word, "…sometimes love doesn't bring people back."
Estobaner lowered his gaze to the plate, his heartbeat drumming in his ears.
Normad didn't say more. He just stared out the window, eyes fixed somewhere far away.
For years, they'd said nothing. Never badmouthed him. Never explained either. But right now, the silence around his father felt louder than any storm.
The silence stretched too long.
Felicia busied herself with straightening napkins that didn't need straightening. Normad stared at his plate like it might give him answers it never had.
Then the television downstairs cracked to life with a sharp burst of sound.
—"tropical storm warning has been issued—"
The reporter's calm, practiced voice bled through the thin walls of the house. Wind speed, pressure, coordinates—cold facts wrapped in careful tones.
Normad grunted, pushing his chair back a little. "Storm season's hitting early this year," he muttered, reaching for the remote. "First a shark attack, now this… the ocean's stirring again."
The fork in Estobaner's hand paused halfway to his mouth.
That word—again—scratched something raw inside his chest.
His heart gave a dull, familiar thump.
Shark attack.
Storm warning.
The same kind of whispers they'd said all those years ago.
The voices on the TV faded to background noise as the air around him thinned.
For a second, the sound of the present bled into the memory of that night—rushing feet, rising water, his mother's laugh swallowed by the roar.
He stared down at his plate, appetite gone. His fingers tightened on the fork.
Felicia must've seen it. She reached over the table and gave his hand a small squeeze, soft and warm. "Niño," she said gently, "it's not the same."
But it didn't matter.
It felt the same.
Estobaner's chair scraped softly against the wooden floor as he pushed back from the table.
Felicia's hand slipped away, leaving behind the faint warmth of her touch.
Normad didn't look up this time, just kept his eyes fixed on the screen—on the slow, swirling storm graphic spinning in the corner of the news broadcast.
"I'm… gonna get some air," Estobaner murmured.
Neither of them stopped him.
They just looked tired—an old, quiet kind of tired that came from years of carrying things no one else could see.
Felicia's shoulders slumped a little when she thought he wasn't looking. Normad let out a slow breath, the kind that sounded like it had been held for decades.
He stepped into the hallway, letting the door close softly behind him. The low hum of the TV dulled, leaving only the sound of the wind pressing gently against the house.
They know something.
The thought came uninvited, quiet but sharp.
Not because they'd ever lied. They hadn't.
But because every time the subject of that night came up, a shadow always crossed their faces. A pause. A glance. A heaviness they tried too hard to make invisible.
They were exhausted.
He could see it in the lines at the corners of their eyes.
He could feel it in the way they avoided the sea, even after all these years.
So he didn't ask. Not yet.
He wouldn't push them when they were already carrying enough.
Instead, he slipped out onto the porch, the late morning light washing over him in pale gold. The breeze smelled faintly of salt—the kind of scent that always found a way back to him no matter how many years passed.
If no one would tell him, then he'd find the answers himself.
The past wasn't done with him.
And he wasn't done with it either.
Estobaner pulled his jacket tighter against the rain, letting the drops soak through just enough to keep him awake. He stared out at the storm-churned horizon, gray waves curling and breaking under the low clouds. The TV's distant hum from inside the house faded into the background.
He didn't need anyone to tell him what to do. Not now. Not after all he'd seen.
His mind raced with questions—about his mother, the black ripples, the sudden chaos that had stolen her. And about his father, the man who had vanished before he could even remember a face.
He would find the answers himself.
No one else could.
With a deep breath, Estobaner stepped off the porch and into the wet grass, letting the rain soak him as he moved. Each step felt deliberate, as if the storm itself were marking the path he needed to take. He had questions, mysteries, and a world full of shadows waiting. And he was done waiting for anyone to hand him answers.