The sala was dim, empty, and quiet.
I had arrived in Boac mid-afternoon, but I wouldn't get home until very late in the evening.
On the table was my cold meal, covered in banana leaves—a bowl of rice and a bowl of milkfish stew. Beside them were a plate and a spoon and fork.
Isabela must have waited for me for a while.
I threw my rayadillo jacket onto the sofa, and it left my shoulders like a bag of stones.
Then I removed the socks—they had felt like cold metal chains wrapped around my legs.
Tired and hungry, I dug into the meal wordlessly. The staleness of the food and the silence of the house could almost make me cry. Heavy thoughts swirled in my mind, suffocating. I was too old for this.
So it was music to my ears when I heard the door creak open.
Isabela stood in the doorway of her room, scratching her newly woken eyes. After a moment, she smiled at the sight of me—and it chased away the dark cloud hanging over my head.
