The Earth, in the year 2147, was a symphony of synthesized noise. The air thrummed with the kinetic vibration of vertical cities and the high-pitched whine of perpetually moving transport. It was a world that had traded verdant silence for dazzling, incessant light, a testament to humanity's triumph over nature. Every major landmass was now a mosaic of interconnected infrastructure, encased in smart materials that reflected the glare of a thousand neon signs.
This relentless, upward creep of technology had effectively suffocated the natural world. Forests existed primarily as highly controlled bio-domes, and most free-roaming wildlife was long gone, surviving only as digitized memories. The oceans were now industrial frontiers, mined and mapped until they yielded no secrets. The vast, spontaneous beauty of old Earth was replaced by the cold, calculated efficiency of the new one. The rapid technological evolution, meant to bring peace, had only amplified the stakes of conflict.
With global resources now controlled by digital algorithms and advanced defense systems, the world fractured into intensely secretive, technologically guarded blocs. Wars flared and died in the network space and over contested resource nodes, resulting in a global atmosphere of pervasive anxiety and strategic seclusion. In this new world order, defined by military-tech superiority, the Philippines remained one of the weakest links, technologically advanced but overshadowed by the heavily armed superpowers.
Amidst the raging, loud technological world, in the semi-agricultural province of Bulacan, a small figure was running.
The province was a peculiar, stubborn anachronism. While its horizon was pierced by the distant, shimmering spires of Metro Manila, the local landscape was stubbornly dedicated to the old ways. Fields of hybrid rice and genetically modified palay stretched across the plains, maintained by a delicate balance of automated farming drones and hands-on laborers, a compromise between progress and necessity.
The boy running through the streets was a sharp, pathetic contrast to the gleaming efficiency around him. He was terrifyingly thin, his skin stretched taut over a frail bone structure, making him look as malnourished as if he hadn't eaten a full meal in a lifetime. Bruises, fresh and old, mottled his exposed arms and legs. He wore no shoes or slippers, just a thin, torn set of white clothing that fluttered around him like a shroud. He ran with a desperate, soundless energy, a ghost fleeing a predator no one else could see.
He came to an abrupt, staggering halt beside an anomaly: a small, wooden cabin untouched by the surrounding world's technological obsession. It was built on stilts, its bricked roof thick with moss, surrounded by a wild, unmanaged garden. It was a pocket of the past, quiet and dark against the backdrop of the blazing future. The cabin's stillness was magnetic, drawing the boy's exhausted body toward it.
He stumbled, his legs finally giving out, and collapsed onto the rough wooden steps of the porch. Fatigue hit him like a physical blow. He lay panting for a long moment before tilting his head back. Above him, the sky was not a canvas of clouds, but a dense highway of flight paths. High-speed levitation vehicles, silent civilian commuters, and the occasional, menacing black drone sliced through the air, their running lights flashing in an unending parade.
The sound of a door being violently pushed open shattered the quiet.
"—Like I said, we will not be giving up our land! We are old! Can't you just wait for us to, you know, die?" a sharp, reedy female voice demanded. The speaker was an elderly woman, probably in her late eighties, framed by the doorway. She was wearing a faded cotton house dress and gripping a cane like a weapon. Her eyes were fiery, clearly prepared for a confrontation with some slick-suited land developer.
But the slick-suited developer wasn't there. There was only the broken, starving child curled on her porch. Her anger deflated instantly, replaced by a deep, unsettling shock. The woman gasped, taking an involuntary step back.
"Benito! Benito, come here! It's… it's not them," she called into the house, her voice suddenly trembling.
A moment later, a man, equally aged and wearing a traditional loose kamisa, shuffled into the doorway, peering over his wife's shoulder. He was Benito, and the sight of the bruised, starving boy was enough to silence any question he might have had.
The old woman, whose name was Lita, knelt stiffly despite her years. She reached a hand out hesitantly. "Anak? Sweetheart, are you hurt?" (Anak means son or daughter which is also often used to denote "child")
The boy flinched violently, scrabbling backwards until his back hit the wooden railing. Fear, pure and distilled, was etched into his face.
The couple, exchanging a look of profound, silent concern, decided immediately. They brought the boy inside.
The interior of the cabin was a comforting chaos of wood, old books, and the gentle smell of herbal tea. Lita gave him water and broth, which the boy drank desperately, his hands shaking so much the cup had to be held for him.
Later, wrapped in a blanket, his initial shock gave way to a strained tension. Benito finally cleared his throat. "We should call the authorities, Lita. The police. He might be missing. Someone must be looking for him."
At the mention of the police, the boy erupted. He shot upright, shaking his head with manic intensity. Though he was voiceless, he mimed a frantic sequence: covering his face, pointing toward the window, and then signaling to the couple to hide him, his eyes wide and pleading. He couldn't speak, but his message was unmistakable: He cannot go outside. He must hide.
Benito sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "A runaway, maybe? Or worse. We don't know who's after him, Lita."
Lita, however, was already protective. "Look at him, Benito. He's skin and bones. He's terrified. We can't send him out there." She gave her husband a hard look. "He stays until he recovers. We can decide then."
Benito, pragmatic and skeptical, but unable to deny his wife anything, eventually conceded with a sharp nod. "Sige. Until the child recovers." (Sige means okay)
In the following days, the couple tried everything to discover his identity. They offered paper and a pen; the boy looked confused, as if he didn't know how to write. They tried to prompt him with common names but he only shook his head.
Then, one evening, as Lita was describing a colorful parrot that lived in their garden, she spoke the word for animal.
The boy watched her lips, his brow furrowed in concentration. He opened his mouth, and after a silent, agonizing effort that made the veins stand out on his thin neck, he pushed a single, hoarse sound out.
"A… A-ni."
Lita and Benito looked at each other, their hearts aching.
"Ani," Lita repeated softly, testing the sound. It was the Tagalog word for 'harvest.' A small, sad, and perfect name.
That was what they called him.