Silay knew he was dreaming. How could he not, when he stood in the old world—bathed in golden light, with silence deeper than sleep and time slower than breath.

In front of him lay a young girl upon a woven banig mat, slumbering still. Her face was soft, untouched by wind or sorrow. Her hair, dark as earth, was crowned with rosal, the white blooms carefully tucked one by one by hands that loved her.

Beyond the open sawali door, the morning sun spilled across the wooden floor. And beyond that… noise. A crowd murmured, feet shifting, bamboo and bronze clinking. As if the whole village waited.

Silay knelt beside the girl and touched a single rosal, its petals warm against his calloused fingers. The “him” in this dream, the version rooted in some ancient memory, balled his tattooed hands into fists. Red and black ink curled down his arms in spiraling batok, freshly dyed with soot.

A low wooden chair waited by the wall, and on it, the crimson tapis. Beads and feathers lay like sleeping spirits across its folds.

He stood, heart quiet but steps heavy. He took the red cloth and wrapped it around himself. As he did, it was as if a thousand eyes blinked awake in the shadows.

The door creaked.

A woman stepped in. Her face bore the years of sun and prayer, and in her hands she held a bamboo comb.

“Saniha still does not wake.”

He understood her words, yet the dream did not explain. His body moved as if it remembered the steps without his will.

The woman stood behind him. Slowly, she unfastened the knot that held his hair like a man’s. His head cloth also loosened, dropping to the floor. The comb scraped gently down his scalp, smoothing each strand. Then she braided it, threading rosal, ilang-ilang, and sampaguita from the basket at her side.

“Give the violet robe to Saniha for now,” she said.

He obeyed, placing the unused garment beside the slumbering girl.

“For now, use the red.”

“I already am.” His voice came sharp, unfamiliar even to himself.

“Look here.”

She daubed his lips with buyo paste, and marked his cheeks and brow with uling and apog, painting ancient signs with her fingers. Her touch did not tremble.

“I could fool the people,” he muttered, “but not the deities.”

“Then you shall please them, even as you are.”

“I am not Saniha.”

“You both are blessed.”

“Saniha is the chosen. We should wait for her to wake.”

“And when shall that be?”

He could not answer.

“The mortals have offered women. But do the gods measure flesh? Do you think they care?” She placed a hand on his shoulder, steady and firm. “What they seek is one who can walk the path. One who can carry the rain home.”

Before he could speak again, the door opened.

The sound swelled—agung, kulintang, and kudyapi music echoing from the clearing.

He was ushered out, feet brushing the dry cracked soil of the parched land.

And when the villagers saw him, they bowed.

The world chimed in response, the sky trembled. He was led to the center of the field, a wide circle had been cleared and swept smooth. 

Around it, villagers stood silent, their mouths sealed but their hearts drumming with hope. Children clung to their mothers, elders held anito-charms strung with animal teeth and shells. All eyes were on Silay.

The air smelled of burnt wood and palina herbs, still rising in smoke from the four corners of the circle. An agung rang once, deep and commanding, and the world hushed.

Silay stepped forward barefoot, the beads and feathers swaying with him like they, too, remembered the steps.

He raised his hands to the sky. Fingers splayed, reaching not pleading.

A chant began. Low, at first. From him.

“Kalangitan, dinggin ninyo…

ᜃᜎᜅᜒᜆᜈ᜔, ᜇᜒᜅ᜔ᜄᜒᜈ᜔ ᜈᜒᜈ᜔ᜌᜓ

(Heaven, hear us)

Kaming tuyong lupa, 

ᜃᜋᜒ ᜆᜓᜌᜓᜅ᜔ ᜎᜓᜉ

(Our Land in drought,)

Kaming tuyo ang palad…

ᜃᜋᜒᜅ᜔ ᜆᜓᜌᜓ ᜀᜅ᜔ ᜉᜎᜇ᜔

(Our palms, dry…)

Kinatawan ng panalangin…

ᜃᜒᜈᜆᜏᜈ᜔ ᜅ᜔ ᜉᜈᜎᜅᜒᜈ᜔

(The bearer of this prayer…)

 Ay ako.

ᜀᜌ᜔ ᜀᜃᜓ

(Is me.)”

The kulintang responded, gentle tinkling bells like falling droplets, accompanied by a steady dabakan heartbeat. Silay closed his eyes.

Then he danced.

His arms cut through the air like wings, slow and graceful, then swift like thunder. His feet skimmed the soil in circles, toes brushing ash and salt. Each movement was deliberate. A calling. One foot stomped sharply, scattering rice grains. His body swayed low and wide, arms circling above his head like clouds being spun by wind.

The elders’ kudyapi players matched him, strings weeping beneath the rhythm, while women around the circle raised their own voices in call-and-response.

“Dalangpanan Langit!

ᜇᜎᜅ᜔ᜉᜈᜈ᜔ ᜎᜅᜒᜆ᜔

(Heaven, Sanctuary!)

Tagapaghatid ng Ulan!

ᜆᜄᜉᜄ᜔ᜑᜆᜒᜇ᜔ ᜅ᜔ ᜂᜎᜈ᜔

(Herald of Rain!)

Basain ninyo kami!

ᜊᜐᜁᜈ᜔ ᜈᜒᜌᜓ ᜃᜋᜒ

(Soak us once more!)”

Silay began to spin, red cloth flaring, inked arms drawing arcs that shimmered under the morning sun. His voice never broke.

“Tubig na buháy, 

ᜆᜓᜊᜒᜄ᜔ ᜈ ᜊᜓᜑᜌ᜔

(Water that is alive,)

Tubig ng ulan…

ᜆᜓᜊᜒᜄ᜔ ᜅ᜔ ᜂᜎᜈ᜔

(Water that is from rain…)

Buksan ang langit!

ᜊᜓᜃ᜔ᜐᜈ᜔ ᜀᜅ᜔ ᜎᜅᜒᜆ᜔

(Open the sky!)”

And the air changed.

The heat cracked. The light dimmed.

A wind, soft as a whisper but smelling of distant rivers, passed over them.

Silay froze, arms wide, face lifted. He did not smile but his body stilled in prayer.

And then…

A single drop.

Fell upon his brow.

And another. And another. The villagers gasped, lifting their hands as the sky rippled gray.

Thunder hummed. The heavens grumbled. And at last, the rain poured—slow at first, then steady, then overflowing. The dry earth drank eagerly.

The ritual fire hissed and died. The red cloth clung to Silay’s skin. But he did not move, not yet. The gods had answered. The land would live.

In the dream, the people chanted his name. But it was not Silay, not Saniha, just the echo of spirit that had danced for them.

The village knew the one who danced for them.

“Silayan!”

“Silayan!” 

“Silayan!”

There was no need to fool the people nor the gods. From that day or maybe even when he was younger, the world graced his presence.

The sound of rain lingered. Soft against skin, against soil. The rhythm of the kulintang still echoed faintly, as though the wind carried it across time. Silay stood unmoving, the red attire heavy with water, the weight of prayer still clinging to his shoulders.

Then.

A sharp inhale.

Silay’s eyes flew open.

He jolted upright, his breath ragged, heart still drumming to the rhythm of gongs. Sweat clung to his brow, and for a moment, the patterned tattoos still burned against his skin—until he looked down. Just his wrists. No ink. No beads. Only the faint trembling of his fingers.

The dim staff resting room greeted him. Pale walls, soft humming of the air-conditioning, and an old analog clock ticking indifferently above the sink. Someone had left an unopened cup of coffee on the counter. Everything was ordinary. Sterile.

But the scent wasn't.

Rain.

It lingered in the air like incense, thick and earthy. Silay rose slowly, slipping into his crocs, touching cold tile. He shuffled toward the small, frosted window, brushing aside the curtains with a hand that hadn't stopped shaking.

And there it was.

The world outside Manila had turned grey, a downpour veiling the skyline. Fat droplets pelted the concrete, racing down the glass like trails of tears. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

He pressed his hand to the window.

And for a second, he wasn’t sure if he had truly woken up.

Rrrng—rrrng—rrrng.

The shrill tone of his phone alarm sliced through the room. Silay flinched, torn from whatever haze clung to his bones. He fumbled for the device on the nearby table, the screen glowing with a reminder:

“Administer stimulant: Patient Lirika, Room 110 – 06:30 AM.”

Right. Lirika.

He sighed, dragging a palm down his face as reality crashed back in. Dream or not, ritual or not, he had work to do. With a sluggish motion, he silenced the alarm, grabbed his coat draped over the chair, and tucked the small medicine vial into his pocket.

Still, as he opened the door to leave, he gave one last glance toward the window.

* * *

The doctor moved with the rhythm of routine, fingers deftly drawing the stimulant into a syringe. Without a word, he cleaned the site on Lirika’s upper arm and administered the dose. She barely flinched. He jotted down the timestamp and dosage with a practiced hand.

Patient slept 7–8 hours. No abnormal interruptions. Administered stimulant—06:37 AM.

Afterward, he knelt in front of her, clipboard set aside.

“We’ll test your reflexes,” he said quietly.

Lirika sat at the edge of the bed, her hands folded neatly over the blanket. Her eyes followed him, unmoving.

He lifted her left foot by the heel, tapped gently beneath the kneecap with the reflex hammer. A twitch.

“Still feel that?”

She gave a slow nod. “A little.”

He adjusted her ankle and ran a cool-tipped metal tool along the sole of her foot. She winced; her toes curled inward.

He noted: Pain present.

Then he paused. “Try to lift your leg.”

Lirika’s brows furrowed. She strained. Nothing moved.

“I…” she whispered. “I want to, but…”

“I know,” Silay murmured.

He was about to record the result when she finally asked:

“…Why are we still testing this?”

He looked up.

“I mean… this is a congenital case, isn’t it? Why do we need to keep trying?”

Silay lowered his pen. For a moment, he didn’t speak.

“Because,” he said slowly, “your auntie once mentioned that, when you were smaller, you were able to walk short distances. Not often. But it happened.”

Lirika blinked. “She said that?”

Silay gave a soft hum. “Not many steps, and not for long. But that alone means there’s a path between the nerves and the muscles—even if it’s buried now.”

She looked down at her legs. Silent. Thinking.

“If there’s a path,” he added, “it can be rebuilt. Or rerouted.”

He didn’t say the rest, but it hung there anyway: If you still want to try.

The thunder outside rolled again. Lirika gave the faintest nod.

Silay quietly resumed writing.

Lirika suddenly called, “Doctor.”

“Hm?”

“I’ll get rid of them,” she said, hand lightly resting over his shoulder, just like the day they met. Silay paused, glancing at the teenager. “But before that, I want you to see them.”

“I won’t be able to see…” Silay began, but then caught himself. That voice, cold and clinical, didn’t belong in a conversation with a child. He shifted his tone, softened his gaze. “See what?”

Lirika raised her hand and gently covered his eyes. “You’ll see them temporarily,” she whispered. “Then you’ll finally believe me.”

Silay didn’t flinch. He allowed the gesture, indulging her play, if only for a moment. The child’s palm was warm, small. A few seconds later, it slipped away. The man blinked, adjusting again to the pale white light of the hospital room.

Lirika sat back, expectant, watching his face.

“Do you see anything other than us?” she asked.

Silay remained kneeling on the floor. He didn’t answer.

“I…”

Thud.

Without warning, Silay collapsed. His body hit the tile like a marionette with cut strings. Blood trailed from his nostrils, blooming crimson against sterile white.

Lirika gasped, recoiling in horror. I only passed a little… just a bit of spiritual energy to his eyes!

Panic surged. She dragged herself to the other side of bed, searching frantically for the nurse call button or the landline. Her fingers barely reached it without falling when the emergency alarm triggered on its own.

The door burst open. Two nurses rushed in, followed by Dr. Itel.

The older woman scanned the room. Lirika looked unharmed. But her eyes froze when she saw Silay sprawled unconscious on the floor.

“Little miss, what happened?” Itel asked briskly.

The nurses rolled in a stretcher and checked his vitals.

Lirika trembled. “I—I don’t know.” Her voice cracked. Which wasn’t a lie. She really didn’t know.

Itel’s gaze flicked to the CCTV in the corner. If the girl tried to lie, she’d know soon enough.

She sighed, already giving orders for cleanup and triage as the stretcher was wheeled out.

Lirika sat quietly as they all left. Then, calmly, she lifted her hand and pointed downward.

Beneath her foot, a malevolent spirit twisted and hissed. Faceless, blackened, barely holding its form.

With a flick of her fingers, it turned to dust.

She looked at her palm.

Every human can hold a little spiritual energy, she thought. Even those not gifted. Their bodies bend, adjust. They never react like this.

Then why did he—

A chill slipped down her spine.

There was only one reason.

Only one kind of man would be repelled so violently by natural law.

Her voice came out barely above a whisper:

“Doctor…” 

Her gaze lingered on the door. “Did you anger Kaluwalhatian?”