The roots of the Balete tree shone brightly that night—silver and purple, softly calling Sids and Epoy, who were the only ones able to hear it.

Without saying a word, they were drawn to the old tree, their hands nearly touching, their eyes wide with awe. The symbols etched on their skin—previously faint—glimmered more intensely now. The earth beneath them throbbed like a heartbeat. It felt familiar. It felt sacred.

Suddenly, the air twisted, sparkled, and opened up.

They walked through.

What they found on the other side was nothing like the dreamy place they had visited before. This time, the magic was gone. The sky looked dull and cracked like broken glass. The temple they had caught glimpses of in their dreams was now in ruins—columns partially collapsed, carvings worn away, and vines coiling around the stone like memories that had been forgotten.

It was not just old.

It was deserted.

Sids went ahead, holding Epoy's hand. “This… used to belong to us,” he spoke softly. “The shrine of Sidapa. And the altar of Libulan. ”

Epoy didn’t let go. He gripped Sids’s hand even more tightly, his eyes surveying the mossy walls with murals—faded yet still partly visible.

There they were.

Libulan, twirling in the moonlight.

Sidapa, watching from the fate's shadows, holding a scythe like bones in one hand and an orchid flower in the other.

And then, fragmented scenes—fire that burned the mountain, chains, light shattered, two figures pulled apart.

“They ruined it,” Epoy said quietly. “They didn’t just wipe us from their minds… they destroyed what we created. ”

Sids remained silent. Instead, he guided Epoy to the middle of the shattered hall, where some marble was still somewhat intact. There, hidden beneath vines and dust, stood a statue.

It was Libulan.

Delicate, sculpted from pale stone. At peace.

Kneeling before it, forever trapped in longing, was the outline of Sidapa’s shadow carved into the floor—no longer solid. Just a fading trace.

Underneath the statue lay a crown.

Or what was left of it.

Made from flame-lilies and moonflowers, the once-bright petals had dried out, their shine replaced by fragile husks. Yet the feelings lingered—love, sadness, hope.

“He created this,” Sids spoke, his voice heavy. “Sidapa… I crafted this. After you were taken away. ”

Epoy knelt beside it. “You waited. ”

“I never stopped waiting,” Sids replied.

He reached out and gently laid his hand on the dried crown. It glowed for just a second—soft, golden, warm. As if it remembered.

Then he looked at Epoy.

They sat there amidst the ruins, with moonlight from this unusual realm streaming in through a broken ceiling. Time seemed to slow down.

Sids took Epoy’s hand. “I don’t want to be separated again. ”

“You won’t,” Epoy whispered, his throat tight. “Even if the stars fall apart, I’ll stay. ”

They leaned close, foreheads touching, forgetting the cold stone beneath them in the warmth of their embrace. Two boys, two gods, two parts of the same tale stitched back together by time and yearning.

They weren’t just remembering.

They were taking it back.