NOVEMBER 2025
LILLIAN
The weeks didn't just pass; they evaporated, each day crossed off in my planner like a ticking clock counting down to January 27. October's humid rain gave way to the distinct, brisk shift of the late-year breeze blowing through Taguig. With every sunrise that Isaac woke up breathing, I felt a grim sense of accomplishment—but a timeline isn't altered just by staying home for dinner.
The true test of the butterfly effect began on the first day of November. Undas.
In the Philippines, the air during Undas is thick with the scent of melted wax and lilies, a time when the veil between what was and what is feels dangerously thin. I spent the morning preparing for Aunt Isabel's memorial, my hands trembling as I adjusted my sleeves. I had to face the place I once thought was home.
Isaac couldn't come. He had his own ghost to tend to—his brother, Elijah.
The air in the ancestral house was thick with the scent of white Lily and the heavy, stagnant breath of the past. I was there to honor Aunt Isabel, but the moment I stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted.
My skin crawled. Uncle Lucian's gaze found me across the room: cold, predatory, and filled with the kind of memories that made my lungs feel like they were filling with water. A tremor started in my chest, a familiar cold panic bleeding down to my fingertips.
"Lillian." Liam's voice pierced through my thoughts. "Are you okay?"
Liam had no idea how cruel his father truly was. And I intended to keep it that way. I wouldn't let history repeat itself; I refused to let his life be destroyed the way my aunt's had been.
"Yeah. I'm... I'm fine."
Liam lingered, searching my face, trying to read the tension in my posture. "Did you have a fight with Isaac?" he asked gently.
"No, Kuya... it's just been a hell of a week at work."
"Don't forget to take care of yourself, Lillian." Liam leaned in, his eyes softening with genuine concern. "Aren't you going to hold a memorial for your parents?"
"I'll just visit them, like always, Kuya," I whispered, my knuckles turning white as I clutched my bag.
He offered to drive me, but I could see the exhaustion weighing heavily on his own shoulders. I couldn't take anything more from him—not in this timeline. Not when I knew he had a flight to Madrid after the memorial.
I let Manong Jerry take the wheel instead. The car ride became a silent, numbing transition, carrying me away from the suffocating walls of the house and toward the open, hollow ache of the graveyard.
The cemetery was a sea of flickering candles and white marble. All around me, life thrived in the presence of the dead. Whole families had set up camp beside the graves of their loved ones: sharing meals from Tupperware, chatting over the low hum of portable fans, and laughing softly as children chased each other between the headstones. It was a typical Sunday reunion, warm and strangely comforting.
But as I walked past them, the warmth faded. I kept moving until the voices blurred into the background, finally stopping before the two cold stones where my parents' names were carved—permanent proof of the life I had destroyed.
I knelt, placing a bouquet of white roses in the space between them.
"It's your girl, Lillian, again," I whispered to the grass.
I talked to them for a long time. I told them about the mysteries, the strange turns of my life lately, and the secrets I was keeping. But as the sun dipped lower, the old guilt returned, sharper than the evening chill.
I can still hear the static of the radio and our voices tangled together, out of tune and full of life, singing my favorite song. I didn't know then that those were the final notes of our lives together. I can still see the curve of my mother's smile in the passenger seat and the way my father's eyes crinkled in the rearview mirror as he laughed at my excitement.
But then the rain starts in my mind, blurring the joy. The guilt is a cold, familiar weight; it tells me that if I hadn't begged for the concert—if I hadn't been so insistent on chasing bright lights on such a gray, treacherous day—they would still be breathing. They died chasing a thrill I demanded, and now, I'm the only one left to sing our song.
The first sob broke through before I could catch it. I let the tears fall, blurring the names on the stones, with the weight of "surviving" crushing me.
ISAAC
The heat of the votive candles at our family mausoleum always felt performative, a lavish display of grief bought and paid for by my parents' bank account. We had spent the morning standing in the polished, air-conditioned marble pavilion, murmuring prayers for Elijah under the watchful, critical eyes of my family's associates. My mother wore designer black; my father checked his market updates between decades of the rosary. Ten years, and he still treated my brother's death like a PR crisis to be managed with quiet elegance.
By the time the priest wrapped up the blessing, my chest was hollow, lined with the same dry ash that had been choking me since we lost Elijah. I slipped away before the catering vans even started unloading the post-memorial luncheon. I didn't want their expensive wine. I didn't want the polite, hushed inquiries about the company's Q4 trajectory.
I just wanted a quiet car and a road that led away from them.
As I climbed into my Mercedes, the late-year breeze through the cracked window brought the faint smell of melted wax from the public plots across the cemetery ridge. My mind immediately drifted to Lillian. She had looked so fragile this morning, before she left for her aunt's memorial.
I started the engine, the digital dashboard glowing to life, and dialed Kuya Jerry. It was Undas, a declared holiday, and I had explicitly given him the day off to spend with his own family, but I knew Lillian had needed someone that will drive her safe to ancestral house earlier.
The phone rang twice before his voice cracked through the Bluetooth speaker. "Ser? Good afternoon po."
"Kuya Jerry, sorry to disturb you on your holiday," I said, steering the Mercedes out of the private estate's gates. "Are you still with Lillian?"
"Ah, opo, Ser. Kakarating lang po namin dito sa sementeryo kung saan nakalibing yung mga magulang ni Ma'am Lillian. Nandito lang po ako sa parking lot, naghihintay sa kotse." (Ah, yes, Sir. We just arrived here at the cemetery where Ma'am Lillian's parents are buried. I'm just here in the parking lot, waiting in the car.)
My grip tightened slightly on the leather steering wheel. I adjusted my rearview mirror, navigating the worsening holiday traffic. "Is she with her cousin? Is Liam there?"
"Hindi po, Ser. Mag-isa lang po si Ma'am. Sabi niya po sa akin, maiwan na lang daw ako rito sa sasakyan at gusto niyang mapag-isa doon sa loob." (No, Sir. Ma'am is alone. She told me to just stay here in the car because she wanted to be by herself inside. )
A sharp, familiar knot tied itself in my stomach. Alone.
On a day when the entire country gathered in massive, noisy family reunions over the graves of their dead, she was walking into that sea of grief entirely by herself.
"Stay there," I commanded, my voice dropping its usual executive detachment. "I'm on my way. Send me your exact location pin."
The drive across Taguig was a blur of red brake lights and roadside vendors selling white chrysanthemums. My heart beat a rapid, uneven tempo against my ribs—that same restless, suffocating feeling that had been following me ever since she told me to just come home a few weeks ago.
When I finally pulled into the chaotic, crowded parking area of the cemetery, I spotted our secondary vehicle. I parked the Mercedes a few slots away and walked over, tapping on Kuya Jerry's window.
He rolled it down, looking up at me in surprise. "Ser, andito na pala kayo."(Sir, you're here.)
"Go home to your family, Kuya Jerry," I said, handing him a folded envelope of holiday gas money through the window. "Take the car, I'll drive Lillian home with me."
"Salamat po, Ser. May kalayuan po yung lalakarin niyo sa loob, dagsa ang tao," he warned gently, pointing toward the eastern ridge of the cemetery. (Thank you, Sir. It's quite a long walk inside, and the crowds are thick. )
"I'll find her. Go ahead."
The moment I stepped past the cemetery gates, the atmosphere hit me. It was a typical Filipino Sunday reunion, but amplified by the presence of the dead. But the further I walked toward the quieter, older section of the grounds, the warmth faded. The crowds thinned until the laughter became distant static.
Then, I saw her.
She was kneeling in the grass, a tiny, solitary figure in black, framed by two identical gray headstones.
I slowed my steps, my leather shoes crunching softly against the gravel path.
Even from twenty paces away, even without seeing her face, I knew. My throat went entirely dry. The sight of her shoulders breaking down did something catastrophic to the neat, orderly boundaries I had built around my life.
I walked closer, stopping just a step behind her. The cold evening breeze caught the edge of her hair, scattering a few white rose petals across the grass. I closed the distance, shadowing her from the chill, and let my voice break through the quiet.
"You should have told me you'd be here alone."
LILLIAN
The voice was low and familiar. I gasped, frantically wiping my face before turning to see Isaac. He was still in his black memorial suit, looking like a dark shadow against the twilight.
"You're here anyway," I said, my voice cracking as I tried to force a smile.
He didn't smile back. He didn't ask if I was okay—he knew I wasn't. He simply sat on the damp grass beside me, heedless of his expensive clothes, while his presence was grounding and heavy.
"You don't have to hide your tears from me, Lillian," he said. His voice was the final blow to my defenses, cracking the porcelain mask I had worn for years.
I looked at him, and the silence of the cemetery suddenly felt too heavy to bear.
"It's okay," he whispered, a permission I hadn't known I was waiting for.
With the crushing weight of a survivor, the first sob tore through my chest—not a quiet weep, but a jagged, primal mourning for the ghosts I had carried alone. For the first time since the accident, I let myself mourn for them. Isaac didn't flinch. He simply anchored me, his chest a solid, warm reality against my wreckage, his hand steady on the back of my head as I finally wept for the lives I believed I had destroyed.
When the last sob finally wrung itself out of me, the cemetery had fallen completely quiet. Night had settled over Taguig, leaving only the distant flicker of votive candles dotting the dark grounds.
Isaac already sent Manong Jerry home since he wasn't supposed to be working today. The gesture was small, but it struck a quiet chord in my chest. Amidst his own grief, he had still thought about Manong Jerry's family, and he had still come to find me.
We walked side by side back to the parking lot in silence. The air had grown crisp, but as he unlocked his Mercedes and opened the passenger door for me, the immediate cabin warmth became a shield against the rest of the world.
The drive back was quiet, but it wasn't the suffocating, tense silence of the ancestral house. It was soft, cushioned by the steady hum of the engine and the dim, warm glow of the dashboard lights. Rain began to drizzle lightly against the windshield, smearing the blurred red tail lights of the holiday traffic ahead.
Isaac kept one hand on the steering wheel, his focus fixed on the slick road, but his awareness was entirely attuned to me. Without asking, he reached over to adjust the climate control, turning down the air conditioning until the chill left the car. A moment later, he reached into the back seat and laid a folded knit sweater across my lap.
"You're shivering," he said softly, his eyes never leaving the road.
I pulled the sweater over my chest, breathing in the subtle scent of cedar and clean cotton that belonged entirely to him. "Thank you."
"You're always trying to hold everything together, Lillian. It's okay to let go for a bit," he replied, his voice a quiet rumble over the rain.
I turned my head toward the window, watching the rain streak across the glass. In the reflection, I saw his side profile—sharp, exhausted, but completely steady.
He doesn't know about January 27, I thought, a quiet lump forming in my throat. He doesn't know I'm trying to save his life. And yet, here he was, saving me from mine in the small, unasked-for ways that mattered most.
I let my eyes close, the exhaustion finally catching up to me, anchored by the steady rhythm of his driving.
_________________________________________________
By the time I woke up, the rain had completely stopped. The car engine was off, leaving the cabin wrapped in a quiet, heavy stillness. I blinked away the haze of sleep to find the car parked safely in the driveway. Beside me, Isaac was leaning back in his seat, his head resting against the headrest as he quietly watched the dark house through the windshield. He had let me sleep, refusing to wake me up when he knew how exhausted I was.
As if sensing I was awake, he turned his head toward me, his voice a soft rumble in the quiet. "We're home."
I looked down at his sweater draped across my lap, then up at the exhausted lines of his face. The weight I had carried all day was noticeably lighter.
"Thank you, Isaac," I repeated, this time looking directly into his dark eyes. "For coming to get me. For... everything."
A brief, almost imperceptible softness touched his lips. "Go inside and wash up. I'll be up in a bit. If you need anything, I'll be at my office."
I nodded, stepping out of the car with a lighter chest than I had carried in years. For the first time since this nightmare began, I believed—really believed—that maybe, just maybe, we were going to survive this.
_________________________________________________
It was almost midnight and I couldn't sleep. The ghosts of the accident were still screaming in my ears.
I wandered toward the hallway, but before I even reach the stairs my feet stopped at the door of his office. The door was ajar.
Isaac was sprawled on the sofa, a laptop precariously balanced on the edge of the table. His sleeves were rolled up, his collar open, the image of a man defeated by his own ambition. I stepped inside, my breath hitching as I watched the rise and fall of his chest. He looked so vulnerable, so human.
I turned to leave, but a low, guttural groan stopped me.
I looked back. His face was contorted, a fine sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead. He was trapped in a nightmare, his fingers twitching against the upholstery.
"Isaac," I whispered, stepping closer. I reached out, my fingers trembling as I poked his shoulder. "Isaac, wake up."
He didn't move. The nightmare seemed to tighten its grip.
"Isaac, it's just—"
A violent, disoriented twitch racked his body. Before I could pull back, he lurched upward with the wild, heavy momentum of a drowning man. His arm lashed out blindly, his hand snatching my wrist with an uncoordinated, bone-crushing grip.
The weight of his sudden movement threw him off balance. He pitched forward into me, a heavy, clumsy collision of limbs that knocked the breath from my lungs. We hit the arm of the sofa hard. I collapsed backward onto the cushions under his sheer, unguided mass.
He tumbled over me, his heavy frame crowding mine in a chaotic tangle. One of his forearms slammed into the cushions right beside my neck, his entire weight bearing down as he fought to orient himself in the dark. For two agonizing seconds, I was entirely trapped beneath his violent disorientation, paralyzed by the raw, unpredictable terror of his shadow looming inches from my face. His breath hit my cheek in ragged, frantic gasps, his eyes wide and unseeing, staring right through me as if I were another specter from his dream.
The tension was suffocating. I am utterly helpless under the awkward, suffocating pressure of his body.
Then, reality flooded back into his expression.
He recoiled as if burned, his hands snapping back as he scrambled off me and stood up so abruptly he nearly tripped over his own feet. He turned his back to me immediately, his shoulders heaving as he fought for control.
A stifling silence shrouded us once again.
"I'm sorry... I saw you having a nightmare," I stuttered, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears.
"You should be sleeping," he said, his voice cold, devoid of the warmth from the cemetery. He didn't look at me. He wouldn't look at me. "Get some rest, Lillian."
He didn't look back. He walked out of the office, leaving me in the shadows of the room, the ghost of his touch still searing my skin.
Left alone in the dim room, I stayed on the sofa, clutching my throbbing wrist to my chest. My pulse hammered wildly against my ribs, a cocktail of residual adrenaline and a deep, aching fear and grief. I drew my knees up, pressing my forehead against them as the shaking slowly subsided.
I sat there in silence, realizing that while I was trying to save his life, I was losing him to the very ghosts I couldn't reach.