"A country without memory is a country without a future." – José Rizal
Miguel exhaled slowly as he closed the history book displayed on his phone. The quote felt heavier than usual today. He locked the screen and stared out the window of the jeepney rumbling through EDSA traffic his daily ride to work.
The Philippines, he thought, was not the same country it once was. Decades of corruption, foreign influence, division, and mismanagement had carved deep wounds into its national spirit. Once a fierce people who resisted empires, Filipinos were now scattered across the world, fighting to survive, not to lead.
Miguel had once dreamed of serving the motherland. In his youth, he joined the Philippine Army, motivated by stories of ancient warriors and revolutionaries. He saw brief action in the Marawi siege back in 2017 enough to harden a young man, but not enough to change a nation.
Now, older, with aching knees and fading strength, he worked as an instructor at a military training center. Teaching discipline to recruits who often cared more about TikTok and easy paychecks than patriotism.
Today's lecture had been pointless, like most days. Why teach strategy when the country had neither the budget nor the unity for real defense? Even with rising tensions in the West Philippine Sea, a full-scale war felt like a distant dream or a distant nightmare.
Still, Miguel rode the jeepney like any ordinary citizen of Manila, lost in traffic and thoughts.
But something was wrong.
The jeepney had stopped moving entirely. No honking, no slow crawling just complete gridlock. The driver looked nervous.
Miguel was about to ask what was going on when the rattling crack of automatic gunfire echoed from up ahead.
Gunfire? In broad daylight? In Manila?
There was only one possibility an attack.
Years of combat instincts surged back into Miguel's aging body. He immediately stepped out of the jeepney, ignoring the driver's panicked shouts.
Screams erupted from nearby streets. People ran. Others hid behind cars. The gunfire grew closer.
Turning a corner, Miguel froze.
A small group of masked men armed with M16 rifles were firing into crowds near a bus terminal. Their movements were coordinated military-like and they shouted in a language Miguel instantly recognized.
Not Filipino.
Not English.
Arabic.
"Tangina…" he muttered under his breath.
A terrorist attack in Manila.
Despite the chaos, Miguel's heart felt strangely calm. After decades of service, he had never truly defended the land of his ancestors. Not in Marawi, not anywhere. But now, even with old bones and no weapon in hand, fate had dumped this moment before him.
One of the gunmen dragged a young high school girl by the wrist, shoving a rifle to her head.
He didn't have time.
Before reason could argue, Miguel charged.
He tackled the terrorist from behind, locking an arm around the man's neck. Years of training took over a twist, a choke, a loud snap. The man collapsed, dropping the girl.
"Run!" Miguel barked.
She sprinted away without a word. No thank you. No glance back.
But Miguel didn't care. Saving her was enough.
Then a burning punch bloomed in his chest.
He staggered.
Another terrorist had shot him.
His vision blurred. His legs trembled. He tried to stay upright but collapsed to the pavement.
Still, he forced out a final shout.
"Go! Tumakbo ka!"
The street spun. Sounds faded. His blood pooled warm beneath him.
His final thoughts were bitter.
"This country… this world… what happened to us…?"
Bang.
Darkness swallowed him.
He drifted in a void no pain, no breath, no body. He wondered whether he had died, or whether judgment awaited him. If God truly existed, then Miguel believed the Philippines deserved divine compensation for all it had suffered.
A distant light appeared.
Instinctively, he crawled toward it.
A blinding glow engulfed him. Voices echoed unfamiliar, yet warm.
"It's a boy! Congratulations, Señora!"
Miguel blinked, but his vision was infant-blurred. Warm hands lifted him. A woman held him to her chest, her face tired but smiling lovingly.
He had been reborn.
Not in a hospital.
But in an antique wooden bedroom lit by oil lamps, with capiz shell windows, carved narra furniture, and servants in uniforms straight from a century past.
This wasn't modern Philippines.
It wasn't even close.
He was in another era entirely.
The woman smiled down at him and whispered weakly:
"My son… from this day on, you will bear your father's name… Eduardo."
Servants bowed as they carried him away, laying him in a wooden crib. A young maid leaned over him, her accent unmistakably Spanish-era Filipino.
"Young master Eduardo… the firstborn son of the de Alvarado family. Your destiny will be great… Rest now."
Darkness took him once more.