Read The Day That Never Was :: The Harp in the Sky

RPV2 Tower, The Executive Floor

The call came just as Marisse was stepping out of his private elevator that morning, phone vibrating violently in the pocket of his coat. He glanced at the screen, and his jaw clenched.

Frederico Rickarte----his father.

He declined the call with a tap, muttering a low curse under his breath as he crossed the polished floors of RPV Tower's executive wing.

In the executive lounge outside his office, Marisse strode toward the reception desk where his assistant was already reviewing tomorrow’s docket.

His long-time executive secretary caught the edge in his stride before he even spoke. She raised an eyebrow as he approached.

“Betita,” he said, voice clipped.

Betty Sanchez, known to everyone in the office as Betita, looked up with her usual lipstick-lined smirk. “I know that tone. Who do I cancel?”

“No one. Set me an appointment with Enrique Villamor.”

Betita blinked. “You want to meet with Don Enrique?”

Marisse stopped and gave her a tight look. “As soon as possible.”

“You’ve been dodging him for five years. What’s changed?” she teased lightly, tapping on her keyboard.

Marisse didn’t answer, but she didn’t need one. Everyone close to him knew Enrique Villamor was the one man he avoided like a lit match. Tyrannical, impatient, and brutal with his words.

Betita narrowed her eyes. “What’s going on, boss?”

Marisse hesitated. Then glanced around. “Close the door.”

Once they were alone, he said, “I need to know what Enrique knows about the night Rose disappeared.”

Betita’s teasing stopped. A shadow passed over her eyes. “You mean the only night that man has never spoken about publicly?”

Marisse nodded. “Exactly that one.”

Betita tilted her head, thoughtful. “You know... things might’ve been different for Don Enrique if Rose hadn’t disappeared. He doted on her after his wife died. She was the only soft part of that man.”

Marisse froze. He turned to her slowly. “How do you know that?”

Betita gave him a small, knowing smile. “Because I followed Rose Villamor’s secret Facebook account.”

Marisse frowned. “Secret Facebook account?”

“Yeah. Back then she was low-key famous. But after she disappeared, her sister memorialized the page.”

Marisse stepped forward. “Show me.”

She turned her tablet to him. A faint chill rolled down his spine as he saw the profile header:
Remembering Rose Villamor, it said.
“This page is now a memorial. We celebrate the life she lived and the stories she shared.”

The profile photo was one he hadn’t seen before. Rose on a beach, laughing as the wind whipped her hair. It was taken from a distance. Candid, alive.

Too alive to be dead.

Photographs of wind-tangled hair, barefoot walks on sand, sun flare selfies from yacht balconies. And there, among them, the seven days they shared aboard The Maverick’s Rose.

Betita sighed. “The shy, reclusive eldest daughter of Enrique Villamor lived a double life online. She had this private page, filled with her poetry, her views on life and politics. Things she never shared publicly as herself. And it blew up. A million subscribers, all captivated by her words, her soul laid bare in journal entries and posts.”

Marisse’s curiosity sharpened. “How did they find this secret account?”

Betita glanced at him quietly. “Her sister, Rachelyn, revealed it only after Rose disappeared. When she memorialized Rose’s page, she posted a video.”

Betita clicked a file on her tablet and played it on the monitor.

A pale woman with tired eyes spoke softly, the memorial video flickering behind her.

Photos of Rose laughing, writing, walking barefoot along a beach.

Rachelyn’s voice broke as she said,

Most people remember Rose Villamor as the reclusive eldest daughter of Enrique Villamor. A name on guest lists, a shadow at fundraisers. Beautiful, yes, but distant.

What few knew, until after she vanished, was that Rose lived a second life.

Through a hidden Facebook account, under no obvious name, she shared her thoughts, poetry, reflections on life and politics. Her words were raw and luminous. Quiet fires in a dark world.

She had over a million followers. And none of them knew who she truly was.

I was one of them.

"If people only knew who they were listening to... if they had embraced Rose Villamor, the whole of her, maybe she’d still be alive. Still here, enriching us with the love she carried in her heart, expressed through her words and cast into the universe as only Rose could."

Betita’s voice lowered, laced with mystery. “I kept a file. Newspaper clippings, rumors, conspiracy theories. One thing haunts me though. The police found photos from other passengers during the investigation. In several pictures, there’s a man. Always watching Rose. Always close but never identified. He’s a shadow in the frame.”

Marisse’s jaw tightened. “A man watching her...?”

Betita nodded. “And no one knows who he is. But he was there. Watching.”

Marisse turned back to the screen, scrolling through Rose’s photos.

“Betita,” he said softly, “I want access to this page. By six p.m. today.”

Her eyes widened. “Sir, it’s memorialized. I’d need legal clearance---”

“I don’t care what you need. Use my black card. Call Zeke. Use the dark web if you must.”

Betita raised an eyebrow. “Can I get that in writing?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

She nodded sharply. “Consider it done.”

Betita then gave a sly grin. “Now that’s the Marisse Rickarte I remember.” Then added, “You know, if Rose were still alive, she’d probably be the only person not afraid to slap you upside the head and tell you to get over yourself.”

Marisse replied with his signature scowl, “You’re still in my office.”

Betita sighed heading for the door. “And here I thought we were bonding, sir.” She turned back, gave Marisse her signature grin then left.

Marisse locked himself in his office and returned to the page, He sat behind his desk and scrolled through the page again, until he felt his chest tighten when he found it.

Her second day aboard.

Journal from the Deck – May 20, 2012
Aboard the Maverick’s Rose

They call it “escort duty,” but he wasn’t just assigned to me. I requested him.

Not because of the uniform. Or the quiet smile. But because when everyone else was performing. Polished forks, champagne voices, futures auctioned off in polite conversation. But him, he listened.

He found me barefoot at the bow, hiding from a world I didn’t ask to inherit. We ended up behind a lifeboat canopy, sharing an earbud and silence. Gladiator soundtrack playing. Lyra, the harp in the sky, trying to make the gods listen.

He didn’t laugh when I said that. He just understood.

We talked about constellations, books we didn’t finish, and legacies we never wanted. And when he looked at me, I wasn’t a Villamor. I was just Rose.

Later, under the stars, I asked him if they were fixed or just moving too slowly for us to notice.

He said, “Maybe we move too fast to see.”

I swear the earth paused.

I almost kissed him.

But I didn’t.

Yet.

#JournalEntry #TheHarpInTheSky #MavericksRose #SummerOfAlmosts #StarsAndQuietMoments

Marisse scrolled on and saw a post for each of the seven days she was onboard, some with poetry, others with a journal entry and some with photos.

May 21, 2012.

Photos of sunsets, of books opened on hammocks, of cryptic captions like:
“The ship is named after my mother. The freedom is all mine.”

Then one from the day before she vanished:
“Sometimes, you don’t need a future to feel infinite. You just need seven days.”
May 25, 2012.

Marisse’s fingers hovered over the image like he could touch the moment.

He stared at the screen long after the post faded into his peripheral vision. He could still hear her voice in his head, soft and clipped and a little bit mocking, the way it had been when she teased him about dancing.

He’d been given another chance.

Not just to hear her words again, but to understand them.

To follow the thread.

To find out where it led that final night.

He tapped his desk intercom. “Betita.”

“Yes, boss?”

“Update.”

“I’ve got two contacts. One’s a retired Facebook content moderator. The other’s from Zeke’s black-hat crew. We’re close. Give me two hours.”

“Make it one.”

She laughed. “Understood.”

He leaned back, fingers steepled under his chin, eyes on the photo still pinned at the top of Rose’s page.

It was taken on Day Two.

She was barefoot on the deck again. Her hair tied back with a silk scarf. Her hand resting lightly on the shoulder of a young deckhand whose face was turned just slightly away from the camera, as if fate itself had reached in to keep the moment hidden.

He remembered the moment.

He remembered the way her fingers brushed his shoulder. Like a question, not yet asked.

Lyra.

The harp in the sky.

He had five more chances to hear her music again.

And this time, he would listen.

Marisse continued scrolling and then he saw it:

A photo from Day Three:
Rose leaning on the railing, laughing, a blurry figure beside her,him, in uniform. Her caption read:

“Some people arrive late and still become the whole point of the story.”

Marisse’s breath caught.

She had known. Even then.

And he had left her alone the night it mattered most.