The humid Manila air hung heavy, thick with the scent of exhaust fumes, blooming sampaguitas strung on makeshift stalls, and the faint, acrid smell of burning trash from the nearby estero. This was the world Lourdes knew, a world of corrugated iron shanties clinging to the banks of the Pasig River, a world far removed from the gleaming skyscrapers that pierced the skyline like elegant spires towards the heavens. The contrast was a constant hum in her life, a visual reminder of the vast inequalities that existed within her city.
Lourdes adjusted her backpack, the weight of her accounting textbooks a familiar burden. She hurried along the crowded sidewalk, weaving through the throngs of vendors hawking their wares – from street food sizzling on makeshift grills to pirated DVDs displayed on dusty blankets. The cacophony of sounds – jeepney horns blaring, vendors shouting their prices, and the constant chatter of passersby – was the soundtrack of her daily commute. Her part-time job at a local accounting firm barely covered their expenses, so every peso counted. Every centavo, as her mother, Maricel, would say.
Today, however, her mind wasn't entirely on balancing ledgers. A nagging unease had settled over her, a disquiet she couldn't quite shake. It started with the sampaguita vendors. They were a constant presence on Manila's streets, their fragrant garlands a symbol of the city itself, offered to tourists, placed on altars, and used in countless religious ceremonies. But lately… they were disappearing.
At first, Lourdes dismissed it as coincidence. Street vendors were transient, their lives often dictated by circumstance. A sudden illness, a family emergency, or simply a better opportunity could cause them to move on. But the disappearances were becoming too frequent, too consistent. It wasn't just one or two; it was a steady trickle, especially among the older women who sold sampaguitas near the Quiapo Church, a place Lourdes often frequented with her father, Mang Bert, to light a candle and offer a prayer.
The police, when approached by worried family members, were dismissive. "Runaways," they'd said, shrugging off the concerns. "They'll turn up eventually. Probably eloped or went back to the province." But Lourdes wasn't convinced. Her accounting studies had trained her to see patterns, to notice discrepancies, to follow the flow of information like water through a riverbed. And the numbers, or rather the lack thereof, didn't add up. It was as if they vanished into thin air, leaving no trace.
She'd started keeping a mental tally, noting the vendors she hadn't seen in days, then weeks. She'd even discreetly asked around, talking to other vendors, piecing together fragments of information. Whispers of unpaid debts, sudden departures, and hushed conversations reached her ears. Some spoke of seeing men in dark suits talking to the missing vendors, others mentioned a black car that had been seen lurking in the area.
Today, her suspicions were amplified. Aling Ising, an elderly woman who had sold sampaguitas outside her university for years, was gone. Lourdes had bought a small garland from her just last week, exchanging a few pleasantries about the weather and Aling Ising's grandchildren. Now, her usual spot was empty, only a faint lingering scent of the white blossoms remained. A single, crushed sampaguita blossom lay on the cracked pavement where Aling Ising's small stool usually sat, a stark reminder of her absence. The sight sent a shiver down Lourdes's spine.
"Something's definitely wrong," Lourdes muttered to herself, her brow furrowed. She kicked at a loose stone on the sidewalk, a small gesture of frustration.
Later that afternoon, at the accounting firm where she worked, Lourdes found herself staring at a spreadsheet, her mind miles away. The numbers blurred, replaced by images of the missing vendors. She was supposed to be reconciling a client's accounts, a tedious task involving endless columns of figures, but her attention was drawn to a series of unusual transactions. Small amounts of money, transferred to various untraceable accounts, seemingly at random. These transactions were flagged as "miscellaneous expenses," a vague category that offered little explanation. It was as if someone was deliberately trying to hide these small financial movements.
"Everything alright, Lourdes?" a voice asked.
Lourdes looked up to see Anne, her best friend and colleague, leaning over her desk, a concerned expression on her face. Anne, with her bright smile and infectious energy, was a welcome distraction, a breath of fresh air amidst the dry world of debits and credits.
"It's the vendors, Anne," Lourdes sighed, pushing the spreadsheet away. "They're still disappearing. And now I've found these strange transactions at work…"
Lourdes explained her concerns, showing Anne the spreadsheet, pointing out the suspicious entries. Anne, though not an accountant, understood Lourdes's meticulous nature. If Lourdes thought something was amiss, it was worth investigating.
"Maybe it's just a coincidence," Anne offered, but her tone lacked conviction. She knew Lourdes well enough to understand that she wouldn't be this worried over mere coincidence.
"I don't think so," Lourdes replied, her voice firm. "There's something bigger going on here."
That evening, after work, Lourdes and Anne met at a small café near the university. Over cups of strong coffee, they discussed their next steps. The café, named "Kapihan ni Juan," was a popular haunt for students, its walls adorned with local artwork and the air filled with the chatter of conversations. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mixed with the sweet scent of pan de sal created a comforting atmosphere, a stark contrast to the unsettling mystery they were discussing.
"I overheard some vendors talking about a… group," Lourdes said, lowering her voice, glancing around to make sure no one was listening. "They called them 'ang mga anino' – the shadows."
"The shadows?" Anne repeated, a shiver running down her spine. The phrase had a sinister ring to it.
"That's all I could gather," Lourdes admitted. "But it's enough to tell me this isn't just about runaways. This is organized."
As they left the café, the Manila night had fully descended, the city's neon lights reflecting in the rain-slicked streets. Lourdes noticed a sleek black car parked across the street, its windows tinted. It was the same type of car she had seen near Forbes Park before – the one that had given her an unsettling feeling. It seemed to be observing them.
A figure emerged from a nearby alleyway, a man dressed in a dark suit. He spoke briefly to someone inside the car before disappearing back into the shadows. Lourdes felt a chill run down her spine. It was as if she was being watched, followed.
"Did you see that?" she whispered to Anne, her voice barely audible.
Anne nodded, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and curiosity. "Maybe it's nothing…"
But Lourdes knew better. The pieces were starting to fall into place, forming a disturbing picture. The missing vendors, the strange transactions, the whispers of "the shadows," and now this mysterious car. It was all connected.
As they walked towards their jeepney stop, the rumble of passing vehicles and the cries of street vendors fading into the background, Lourdes felt a sense of dread wash over her. She had stumbled upon something dangerous, something that reached far beyond the streets she knew. And she had a feeling that she was already in too deep. The city lights, once comforting, now seemed to cast long, ominous shadows.