Another full moon graced the bustling city of Baguio, its silvery light cascading over the hills and rooftops. The night seemed alive, with every corner telling a story. After handing the photograph to Wes, the man turned to leave but paused, offering a quick smile.
"I'm Rich," he introduced himself, his voice steady and calm. Then, with a nod, he disappeared into the night. Wes stood in silence, clutching the photograph. The bar's soulful melodies played in the background as he stared at the image—a candid shot of himself, thoughtful and unguarded. He tucked the photograph into his pocket, still processing the interaction.
Meanwhile, Rich returned to his rooftop apartment overlooking the city. It was the perfect vantage point to see Baguio's shimmering lights, which looked like scattered stars waiting to shine. A dreamy haze of fog covered parts of the city, giving the night an ethereal quality. Rich's apartment was spacious yet modest, with two rooms and a living area lined with shelves of books and photo albums. His camera gear was neatly arranged on one side of the room, and a small desk held his laptop and a stack of unedited photos. His subject of choice was solitude—he captured people at their most authentic, often alone, lost in thought, or unguarded.
Settling on his couch, Rich scanned through his latest shots, pausing on one of a young woman staring out a café window and another of a man sitting alone on a park bench. The emotions in the photos seemed to speak louder than words. He set his camera aside, opened the fridge, and grabbed leftover Chinese food. While the television played in the background, his mind wandered. Rich loved to keep busy, but even in his moments of stillness, there was a depth to his calm demeanor—a reminder that steady rivers often run deep.
The next morning, in a quieter part of town, Diego sat at the breakfast table with his grandfather, Lolo Tomas. Their humble home was filled with warmth, the smell of freshly brewed coffee lingering in the air. Diego, energetic despite his struggles, shared his plans.
"Lolo, I've been thinking about moving to the city," he began, taking a sip of his coffee. "It's hard going back and forth all the time for gigs. If I lived closer, I'd have more energy and maybe even more opportunities."
Lolo Tomas chuckled, his eyes twinkling. "And who will keep me company here? Should I come with you to the city?"
Diego laughed, shaking his head. "You love this house too much, Lolo. I know you'd never leave." His grandfather nodded, a bittersweet smile crossing his face. "This place holds too many memories, hijo. Good ones. It's hard to let go."
The conversation lulled into a comfortable silence, the only sounds being the clinking of plates and the occasional chirp of birds outside. They finished their meal, each lost in their thoughts.
Later that day, Diego found himself walking along the crowded streets, guitar slung over his shoulder. He was on a mission to find a cheap room to rent. His steps were purposeful as he scanned signs and spoke to vendors, asking if they knew of any affordable places. Despite his efforts, he had no luck. With a sigh, Diego decided to take a break and stopped by a quaint coffee shop that served his favorite local brew. The rich aroma of freshly ground beans greeted him as he entered. He ordered his usual—a strong, locally sourced coffee that was bold but not bitter, just the way he liked it.
Unbeknownst to him, Wes was also heading to the same coffee shop. The morning's events still lingered in his mind, but the sight of a familiar figure sitting by the window snapped him out of his thoughts.
"Diego?" Wes said, his voice tinged with surprise as he approached.
Diego looked up, equally startled. This time, however, he wasn't dismissive. A smile tugged at his lips. "Hey, Wes."
The two exchanged pleasantries, and Wes, unable to hide his curiosity, began asking random questions. "Why are you here? What brings you to the city?"
Diego chuckled, sipping his coffee. "I'm looking for a place to stay. Planning to move here to be closer to gigs."
Wes nodded, pretending to think of suggestions. The truth was, he couldn't offer his own cramped space—it was barely big enough for himself. Instead, he found his attention drifting to Diego's guitar, itching to ask about his music but holding back.
Before Diego left, Wes reached for a napkin and scribbled his number on it. "In case you need help or just want to grab coffee again," he said with a sheepish smile.
Diego smiled and took the napkin, then reached into his bag and pulled out his own phone. "Here," he said, tapping in his number. "You never know, we might bump into each other again."
Wes grinned, feeling a spark of excitement. "Thanks. By the way, I have a gig tonight at a bar nearby. You should come."
That night, Diego arrived early at the bar to set up. The space was quiet, the crowd yet to arrive. Diego went through his usual routine—checking the mic, tuning his guitar, and scanning his song list. He poured himself a drink, savoring the calm before the storm.
He began to play, his music filling the bar with a nostalgic blend of early 2000s alternative hits and heartfelt originals. Diego lost himself in the rhythm, pouring his emotions into every note.
Wes arrived halfway through the set, slipping into a corner seat unnoticed. He watched Diego intently, impressed by the passion in his performance.
When the gig ended, Wes lingered as Diego packed up his equipment. Approaching him, Wes offered a genuine compliment. "You're really good. You belong in the city."
Diego smiled, appreciating the encouragement. The two shared a laugh, their bond growing stronger in the brief moments they'd shared. They parted ways outside the bar, each walking in opposite directions.
As Wes made his way home, the peaceful night was shattered by the wail of sirens. People ran past him, panic etched on their faces.
"What's going on?" Wes muttered, his heart pounding. He broke into a run as the acrid smell of smoke filled the air. The flickering glow of flames illuminated the night sky, and his worst fears were confirmed as he neared his building—it was on fire.
In shock, Wes froze, watching helplessly as firefighters battled the raging blaze. His mind raced. Was there anything left to salvage? Would his art, his belongings, his sense of stability all be lost?
He took a shaky breath, trying to steady himself. The crowd around him murmured, their voices blending with the crackling of flames and the shouts of the fire brigade. Wes clenched his fists, his thoughts racing. His home—his sanctuary, however imperfect—was gone.
In the distance, the full moon continued to shine, indifferent to the chaos below. It was another night in Baguio, a city full of stories intertwined with both beauty and heartbreak.