As I stepped through the door into the light, a wave of warmth washed over me. I blinked, trying to adjust to the brightness. When my vision cleared, I froze. Before me was a scene I hadn't seen in years, one that I thought only existed in my imagination.
It was a home. My home but not the broken and quiet one I'd grown up in. This was vibrant and alive. I saw my parents there, their faces etched with love and care. My father stood tall, his hands calloused but steady as he worked on a wooden piece, a bolo resting on the table beside him. My mother, her soft laughter echoing like a melody, was tending to a pot of simmering adobo on the stove. The scent wafted through the air, warm and comforting.
I was there too, when I was a baby, barely able to walk, toddling around the bamboo floor of our bahay kubo. My tiny feet tapped against the polished wood as my father scooped me up, lifting me high into the air. His laughter was deep and hearty, a sound I had never truly known but instantly recognized.
"Jiro, anak, be careful!" my mother called out, but her voice held no real concern only the teasing tone of a doting parent.
"Let the boy learn!" my father replied, tossing me gently before catching me again. I squealed with joy, and my mother rolled her eyes, though she couldn't hide her smile.
The scene shifted. I was a little older now, maybe six or seven. My father was teaching me how to use a yantok stick, his movements precise and deliberate. "Focus, anak," he said, his voice firm but kind. "You have to learn to protect yourself and those you love."
I stumbled, the stick slipping from my grip. He knelt down, wiping the tears that threatened to spill from my eyes. "It's okay to fall," he said, his hand on my shoulder. "What matters is that you get back up."
The perspective shifted again, and this time I saw my mother teaching me to pray before meals. Her voice was calm and soothing, her hands guiding mine as we pressed them together. "Always be grateful, anak," she said, her eyes reflecting the light of the evening lamp. "No matter how little we have, it is a blessing."
The warmth of these moments wrapped around me like a blanket. I saw how my parents would celebrate every little achievement of mine, a drawing I'd made, a simple word I learned to spell. They clapped and cheered as though I had won a great prize. My father's boisterous pride and my mother's quiet encouragement filled the house with an unshakable joy.
Then came the discipline. I saw myself as a mischievous child, sneaking a mango from the counter when I thought no one was watching. My father's stern voice stopped me mid-bite. "Jiro, we share, remember?" he said, his tone firm but not harsh. He took the mango from my hands, cut it into equal pieces, and handed me one. "Always think of others before yourself," he said. My mother nodded approvingly, placing a gentle hand on my head.
Filipino parents have a way of raising their children that is both tender and strict, balancing discipline with affection. I saw how they instilled in me the values of utang na loob (debt of gratitude), pakikisama (harmony with others), and bayanihan (community spirit). These lessons were not taught with lectures but through their everyday actions, the way my mother shared food with neighbors, the way my father offered help without being asked.
The scene shifted again. I was a teenager now, facing the usual struggles of adolescence. I saw my father guiding me as I tried to carve a piece of wood, his patience endless despite my frustration. My mother was nearby, her soft humming calming the storm brewing in my chest.
And then… the warmth began to fade. The vibrant colors dulled, and the scene started to dissolve. I reached out, desperate to hold onto it, but my fingers passed through like mist.
"No," I whispered. "Not yet."
The vision swirled, and the sounds of their laughter, their voices, began to fade into silence. All that was left was me, standing in the empty light, clutching at a memory that could never be real.
It was then that I realized the trial was not one of combat or intellect. It was of the heart, a test of my will to move forward despite the life I'd lost. My parents had given me everything, even in their absence. Their love, their lessons, their spirit—they lived on in me.
As the swirling light began to settle, I felt a strange pull. My body felt weightless, as though I were drifting through a dream. When the haze cleared, I was no longer a mere observer. I was in the scene itself. My hands, my body—it was me, as I am now. Not the child toddling on the bamboo floor, but the Jiro who had endured trials, fought battles, and carried scars both inside and out.
I looked down at my hands, flexing my fingers. They felt solid, real. The soft glow of the lanterns, the earthy scent of the bamboo walls, the warmth of the evening breeze, it was all vivid, alive. I turned, and there they were.
My parents.
My father sat on a low wooden bench, carving something from a block of wood. The sharp scrape of his blade filled the air, rhythmic and purposeful. My mother was by the stove, stirring a pot of steaming stew. She turned to me, her face lighting up with a smile so warm it made my chest ache.
"Jiro, anak," she said, wiping her hands on a cloth. "You're home."
Home. The word struck a chord deep within me, reverberating like the toll of a distant bell. I opened my mouth to speak, but no sound came. My father looked up from his work, his face breaking into a grin.
"Finally decided to take a break from all your adventures, huh?" he said, his voice rich and full of life. "Come, sit. Tell us everything."
I hesitated, my mind racing. This wasn't real. It couldn't be real. And yet, it felt so much like home, like everything I'd ever wished for.
"Sit, anak," my mother urged, patting the seat beside her. Her eyes held a tenderness that seemed to erase every hardship I'd ever faced. "You must be tired."
I took a step forward, unable to resist the pull of their love. The weight of my journey seemed to vanish, replaced by the simple, pure joy of being in their presence. My mother handed me a bowl of stew, the rich aroma filling my senses.
"Eat," she said softly. "You've grown so much, Jiro. You've been so strong. But you don't have to fight anymore. You can stay here. With us."
Her words were like a balm, soothing the cracks and fractures in my spirit. My father chuckled, placing his carving tools aside. "There's nothing out there you need that you don't already have here, son," he said. "Everything you've ever wanted and it's right here."
The warmth of their words wrapped around me like a cocoon, enticing me to let go. To rest. To stay. For a moment, I allowed myself to imagine it, life free of trials, of danger. A life where my parents were alive, where we were a family.
But something stirred in the back of my mind. A flicker of unease. This wasn't right. This wasn't real.
"Why now?" I asked, my voice trembling. "Why show me this now?"
My mother reached out, placing a hand on mine. Her touch was soft, comforting. "Because you deserve happiness, anak," she said. "You've done enough. Let the world carry on without you. Stay here. Be with us."
I pulled my hand away, my heart pounding. "But… I can't," I said, my voice firming. "There are people out there who need me. I have a purpose."
"You've done enough," my father said, his tone suddenly sharp. "Let someone else take the burden. You don't owe the world anything."
The warmth in the room began to feel stifling, oppressive. Their faces, once so kind and familiar, seemed to twist ever so slightly. My father's grin was too wide, his eyes too intent. My mother's softness took on an edge, her voice dripping with a sweetness that felt like poison.
I stood, the bowl of stew clattering to the floor. "This isn't real," I said, my voice cutting through the thick air. "You're not my parents."
They stood as well, their movements eerily synchronized. The love in their eyes was gone, replaced by something darker.
"Why would you leave?" my father said, his voice low and dangerous. "Why fight for a world that doesn't care about you?"
My mother stepped closer, her eyes gleaming. "Stay with us, Jiro," she said, her voice dripping with venomous sweetness. "Don't you want to be happy?"
I stepped back, my resolve hardening. "This isn't happiness," I said. "It's a lie. My parents… my real parents would never ask me to give up."
The scene began to distort, the walls of the bahay kubo rippling like water. My parents' forms twisted, their features warping into something grotesque. Their voices layered over each other, a cacophony of pleas and demands.
"You'll regret this!" they snarled as the world around me collapsed into darkness.
I stood firm, my fists clenched, my heart steady. "I already regret not having them," I whispered. "But I won't betray this memories of what if."