Chapter 1: Something in the Rain

Unlike the beliefs in Buddhism and Hinduism, where souls are certain to be reincarnated, the belief during the pre-colonial era of the Philippines was quite different. It was said that the realm was divided into several layers: Kaluwalhatian, where Mother Bathala resided alongside the other gods; Maka, the paradise where souls found rest and harmony; Daigdig, the world of the living; and Kasanaan, ruled by Sitan, where the souls with imbalanced death, spiritual disorder, or failure to honor the sacred order of life, nature, and ancestors resides. 

The souls of the departed do not return to the world of humans. They were believed to have fulfilled their lives and, thus, refused to look back. Unless they were summoned or burdened by great worry.

Reincarnation was rare, granted only to souls with unfinished business or heroic pasts. Noble reasons, all of them.

But there was another way. A slower, crueler path.

Through a curse.

Long ago, two powerful clans existed. Capable of elevating manmade curses, summoning souls, predicting war and famine, speaking with spirits, and healing illnesses through the power of their Katalonans.

They were not just seers or healers, but there also existed leaders of their people: Lakan Atar of the Lipol Clan and Lakambini Tala of the Luan Clan. But six hundred years have passed since their final war. In that last battle, it was said that their most precious Katalonan was cursed. From then on, much of the knowledge about the past was erased when the land was seized and subjugated by foreign rule.

Since then, their existence has been debated. Myth or truth?

The teachings of the ancestors have long faded. Only fragments of their words remain. The once-renowned humans who could commune with spirits and channel divine power are gone, just as the spirits themselves no longer mingle freely with humankind.

Yet near the mountains, a small family endures.

They are known as Folk Healers, individuals born with minor spiritual sensitivity or inheritors of traditional knowledge. These healers treat illness using herbal medicine, prayers, and small rites to appease wandering spirits. Though respected by their local community, they are not as spiritually potent as the Katalonans—those said to have pleased both gods and spirits alike.

But modern medicine has long taken over, so only the poor or the desperate still visit their home seeking healing.

The old wooden gate creaked as a young man entered. The house, weathered and humble, had likely stood for a few hundred years. Though he had offered many times to pay for renovations, his offer was always firmly refused.

As he stepped through the door, the familiar scent of dried herbs and boiled roots greeted him.

In the worn-down kitchen, Old Man Manawari was hunched over a clay pot, brewing a mixture of local leaves. Lagundi for cough, Sambong for cleansing the kidneys, and Tsaang Gubat for stomach pain. The aroma was sharp yet comforting, like a memory that never quite faded.

The old man didn’t look up, only offering a cup of filtered juice from the leaves.

“Care to drink?”

“Haha… my kidneys work fine,” the other replied, pausing before taking the mug and sitting beside him. “Okay, okay. I’ll drink it.”

The young man stared at the liquid for a moment. The steam wafted up, inviting. But he didn’t really find it appetizing. He turned to the old man. “How about a new house near me?”

“No.”

“I can build it near the mountains or the beach.”

“No.”

“Then how about I renovate this one?”

“No.”

He sighed.

“Pa, you’re way too far from me. I know the city’s noisy, but I could place it in the suburbs—just a few minutes from the hospital. You’re getting old. If something happens to you here, I won’t make it in time.”

The young man stood, peeking over his father’s shoulder despite being much taller.

“Just consider it, please.”

The old man blew out the flame from the wood stove and tossed a damp towel over it. He moved with surprising nimbleness, lifting the clay pot and placing it on the table.

“You shouldn’t waste your rest day nagging me,” he said, gently patting the younger one’s head as it drooped onto the table, defeated.

Old Man Manawari could still remember the day this child came into the world. He and his wife had been old already, and yet heaven had given them one last chance.

His wife had smiled… just before she passed away.

At the time, it felt like a price paid.

But now, it felt like a gift.

For a moment, he thought the child had died with her. He hadn’t cried, hadn’t moved. Not even a breath in the first few minutes. Old Man Manawari had feared then that it wasn’t God who answered their prayers, but something else entirely.

But as he placed a cloth over the baby’s still face, tiny fingers reached up and pushed it aside.

Two rich, brown eyes looked straight at him. Curious, blinking. The baby giggled, then choked on his own saliva, then finally cried.

That was when Old Man Manawari named him Silay.

Silay sat up and drank the herbal tea in one go, “I left the groceries on the long bench.”

“I don’t eat those manufactured products,” the old man chuckled.

“Aw, come on. Just try it.”

“Maybe gifting me a whole cow would be better.”

“You can’t! You’re too old to butcher it,” Silay shot back as he walked out of the kitchen. “I’ll put those in the cabinets before I go.”

Old Man Manawari looked out the window, spotting his son’s car parked outside. His brows furrowed at the darkening sky.

“Be careful driving down the mountain.”

“Yes!” Silay called back from the living room.

Even now, Old Man Manawari couldn’t help but worry. That child he once cradled in his arms was now a grown man. In the past, Silay had been sickly. He couldn’t even step outside without tiring himself out. But thankfully, things changed as he grew older.

After a few moments of rummaging in the other room, Silay reappeared. “Well then, I’m heading out.”

Old Man Manawari waved his hand dismissively, as if shooing him away.

Who would have thought that fragile child would one day become a doctor? Truly, fate has its own strange and wonderful ways.

* * *

Outside, Silay opened his car. After warming it up, he smoothly drove off. Now he understood why his father had warned him to be careful—rain began to fall not long after. The mountain road, poorly maintained, could get dangerously slippery, and falling rocks weren’t uncommon.

A few minutes down the road, Silay’s phone rang. With one hand, he mounted it on the holder and turned on the speaker.

“I’m really sorry to call you on your day off, Doctor,” the nurse began. “But we’ve been instructed to inform you.”

“Go ahead,” he replied calmly.

“Dr. Manawari, a patient has been transferred to your care today.”

“Oh?” Silay hummed. “Give me the preliminary details and her room number. I’ll stop by as soon as I arrive.”

“The patient’s name is Lirika Luan. She’s 14 years old and currently presents with lower limb paralysis. Initial assessments ruled out structural damage or injury, and the consensus is that her condition stems from neurological causes—possibly a congenital disorder or early developmental trauma.”

The rain grew heavier, the windshield wipers working overtime. Silay nodded, turning onto another road. He was nearly at the base of the mountain.

“Continue.”

“She also has a rare and undiagnosed sleep-related condition,” the nurse went on. “She enters an unresponsive state—medically, it resembles a coma. Episodes vary in duration: sometimes a few days, other times stretching to several months. There’s no known trigger or consistent pattern. You were specifically requested due to your background in complex neurological and sleep disorders.”

“All right. Room number?”

“Apologies for the delay, it’s Room 110.”

“Thank you.”

The call disconnected.

As the road sloped downward, Silay eased off the gas. The steady rhythm of rain thudded against the windshield, wipers hissing back and forth in their tireless sweep. Fog curled like breath along the trees, and the familiar scent of pine crept faintly through the vents.

Room 110. Lirika Luan.

The name stuck like a thorn for some reason.

Fourteen years old. Paralyzed from the legs down. No spinal injury. No known trauma. And then—episodes where she would shut down completely, like a body without a soul. Doctors called it a sleep illness. But none could define it clearly.

That’s where he came in.

Silay Manawari. A Physiatrist, specializing in Neurorehabilitation and Sleep Medicine.

Not exactly the most glamorous title. But it was what he had chosen, carving a path through rare neuro-sleep disorders most wouldn't even touch. His colleagues once asked why he took the field, why he’d settle in the quiet world of coma patients and slow-moving recoveries.

He could never explain it fully. Not without sounding strange. Like confessing that a recurring dream haunted him throughout med school, a dream of a girl he couldn’t save, slipping into shadow before his outstretched hand could reach her.

The wheel hummed beneath his palm as the rain thickened.

Suddenly, his headlights caught something.

A man.

Standing alone, soaked to the bone, unmoving in the middle of the narrow mountain road.

Silay’s instincts screamed.

“Shit!”

He slammed the brakes.

The tires screeched across the wet pavement, jerking the car violently. The seatbelt bit into his chest. The man’s figure blurred, and then collapsed.

Thud.

“No no no no—!” Silay threw the door open before the car had even stopped rocking.

The cold hit him first, then the rain. Sheets of it, drenching his coat, hair, breath.

The man lay sprawled across the asphalt, head just a few inches from the bumper. Medium length ashy brown hair plastered to his face. Pale skin. Unconscious… or worse.

Silay dropped to his knees beside him. “You’re kidding me. You’re not—you're not dead, right?!”

Fumbling, he pressed fingers to the man’s neck. Pulse. Weak, but there.

He let out a breath, half relief, half disbelief. “I did not hit you. You collapsed. You walked straight into the road. You’re a lunatic!”

Thankfully, there were no people around to see his breakdown.

Who would like to see a doctor get into an accident and panic?

Still, he hooked his arms under the man’s shoulders, dragging his limp body toward the car’s backseat, muttering all the while:

“I definitely didn’t hit you. You’re just dramatic. Spiritually overheated. Dehydrated. Possessed. I don’t know. God, why me.”

The man’s body was cold, unnaturally so. As if he’d been soaked not just by rain, but something ancient and wrong.

Silay shoved him into the backseat, quickly slamming the door shut. Then leaned on the roof of the car for a second, breathing hard.

He glanced once at the rearview mirror. The man hadn’t moved.

“Hospital it is,” he muttered, swallowing down the unease curling in his gut.

Author’s Note:

The following Prologue and Chapter 1-5 will be available in advance. This series will officially start updating after the "To Not Die in Vain's" final editing finishes. If this story has taken your interest, please drop a like and subscribe so that you will be notified once it starts regularly updating. The offical schedule for updating is stilll undecided. I ask for you patience, thank you!