A warm afternoon. A lecture hall bathed in sunlight. Students scattered across the room, some diligently taking notes, others half-asleep.
Xhaelyn Silva is among them, but her mind is elsewhere. She sits near the window, absentmindedly twirling her pen, her chin resting on her hand. Her notes are written neatly, but she isn't paying attention—her body simply moves on autopilot, conditioned by years of habit.
She doesn't care much for the subject. In fact, she doesn't care much for most things. Effort is exhausting, and she has long since decided that nothing is worth overexerting herself for. She answers when called on, just enough to satisfy the professor and avoid unnecessary attention. Too smart, and people expect too much. Too dull, and people pester her. The trick is to stay perfectly in the middle—just competent enough to blend in.
When class ends, a few classmates invite her to a study session. She gives them her usual polite, noncommittal response, already knowing she won't go.
Her feet carry her to a familiar café, where the barista wordlessly hands her an iced coffee. She takes it with an almost inaudible "thanks," settles into her usual corner, and pulls out a book. A fantasy novel. She loves to read, a hobby she almost forgot before. But now that she has been given another chance at life, she indulges in it wholeheartedly.
She stays in the café for an hour and a half, just like always. The quiet hum of conversation fades into the background as she loses herself in the world of her book.
And then there's this one book—something about it unsettles her. As she turns the pages, a strange feeling creeps in. Familiar. Foreign. The names, the setting… they tug at something buried deep within her, just out of reach. Then it hits her—she had read it before, in another life. But the details are hazy, blurred like ink in water. It's the same story—she's almost certain—but something about it feels off. Altered. She can't explain how or why. All she knows is that with every chapter, a weight begins to stir in her chest, like a truth pressing against the surface of her mind, begging to be remembered.
She sighed. It's been more than a decade now. No wonder she could barely recall its contents.
By the time she leaves, the streets are busier, headlights flashing past as she walks at her usual unhurried pace toward her apartment. She arrives, freshens up, and changes into her work uniform. At 8 p.m., she heads to her part-time job—a convenience store a few blocks away. The pay is enough.
It's not like she has much to spend on. She lives alone, a result of circumstances beyond her control. Her father had died on a business trip. Her mother, too, had left the world when she was eleven, taking more than half of their fortune with her in hospital bills. The rest had been hers—until she realized her relatives weren't housing her out of kindness, but out of greed. At fifteen, she left.
Now, she stands behind the counter, her professional smile in place as she scans items with practiced efficiency.
"That'll be ₱352," she says, voice polite but distant.
The customer nods, pays, and leaves. The next one steps forward.
Her gaze flickers to the TV mounted in the corner. A news broadcast is playing. The headline catches her eye:
"Another brutal murder in Gangnam—authorities suspect serial killer at large."
The footage shifts to images of the crime scene, blurred for viewers. The anchor describes the victim's injuries, the gruesome details sending a shiver through some customers in line.
"How horrible," a middle-aged woman mutters. "The world is getting scarier every day."
"Right? I don't even let my kids go out alone anymore," another chimes in. "People like that… they're monsters."
Xhaelyn lowers her gaze, scanning another item.
Monsters?
This is nothing.
She doesn't react outwardly, but her thoughts drift. A single death, a few corpses, even a series of gruesome murders—this was what people called terrifying? It was mild. Tame. Barely a whisper compared to the things she had seen before.
A sharp tap on the counter pulls her back. She blinks, looking up.
"You good?"
Her co-worker, Harold, a college student like her, stands beside her, arms crossed. He follows her gaze to the news.
"You've been staring at the screen for a while," he says. "Creeped out?"
Xhaelyn tilts her head slightly, as if considering it. Then, she lets out a soft, dismissive hum. "Not really."
"Not really?" Harold frowns. "I mean, sure, we see crime reports all the time, but this one's bad. The way they described it… It's like something out of a horror movie."
Xhaelyn only shrugs. "People do worse things when no one's watching."
Harold stares at her for a second before shaking his head. "You say some weird stuff sometimes, you know that?"
She smiles, the same polite, unreadable one she always wears at work. "Do I?"
Harold sighs. "Forget it. Just don't let the news get to you."
She doesn't correct him.
The shift continues. Customers come and go, the news cycles to another story, and eventually, Harold drops the conversation.
But as she stocks the shelves, a stray thought lingers in her mind.
People feared the darkness because they didn't understand it.
She, however, had lived in it.
And compared to that, this world was peaceful.
Even with its so-called monsters.
It's a quiet Saturday morning when Xhaelyn steps out of her apartment, a grocery bag in hand. The plan is simple—restock her fridge, then return to her usual routine of reading and avoiding unnecessary effort.
But, as expected, she doesn't get far.
"Xhaelyn! Wait a moment!"
She turns to see Mrs. Perla, the elderly woman from the unit across hers, waving her over with a small plastic container in hand.
"I made some pancit last night," Mrs. Perla says with a proud smile, pressing the container into Xhaelyn's hands. "You should eat properly, dear. Instant food isn't enough."
Xhaelyn glances down at the container, then back at the expectant old woman. She knows from experience that rejecting Mrs. Perla's kindness is futile.
"...Thanks," she says, tucking it under her arm.
Later that afternoon, she finds herself leaning against a lamppost near the neighborhood basketball court, iced coffee in hand, as the kids play patintero.
Paolo dashes forward, dodging the defenders with exaggerated movements. He skids close to the line, nearly stepping over, but the defending kid lunges forward, barely missing him.
"Out!" someone shouts.
Paolo spins around, indignant. "I wasn't tagged!"
Xhaelyn raises a brow. "Then keep running and stop arguing," she says lazily.
Paolo immediately bolts forward, narrowly escaping another swipe.
"You could at least cheer for me, Ate Xhaelyn!" he calls out.
She hums, unimpressed. "Run faster, then."
A few of the older kids chuckle, and the game continues. Eventually, one of Paolo's teammates gets tagged, forcing their team to switch to defense. As they reorganize, Paolo rushes over to her side, tugging at her sleeve.
"Did you see that? I was like—zoom!" He makes a dramatic running motion with his arms.
Xhaelyn looks down at him, unimpressed. "You almost tripped over your own foot."
He gasps. "You weren't supposed to notice that!"
She smirks slightly but says nothing, taking another sip of her coffee as the next round begins.
As the game wraps up, Mrs. Dalisay from the apartment next door calls out, "Xhaelyn, dear, we're having a small gathering tomorrow. You should drop by!"
"Mm, I'll see," she replies noncommittally.
She probably won't.
...But then again, if there's lechon, maybe.
She doesn't mind blending in, sometimes.
"Dear, you should socialize more while you're young," Mrs. Dalisay added with a chuckle. "And don't keep that poker face all the time—your face might freeze like that!"
A small, helpless smile tugged at Xhaelyn's lips—but deep down, she felt genuine gratitude for the quiet kindness of her neighbors.
It wasn't the life she once knew, but it was quiet, kind, and hers.
And for now, that was enough.
She had known darkness. This peace, however fleeting, was a rare kind of mercy.