Before the Crossing
In Tagaytay City, inside a sun-warmed sandbox, a boy carefully shaped the damp sand between his fingers.
“Add a little water so that the sand will stick,” he said, glancing at the girl beside him.
She crouched low, concentrating on a fragile tower forming beneath her small hands. “I just can’t add too much water; the sandbox will become muddy.” She paused, then looked up at him. “Have you done our homework for tomorrow?”
“For math? Of course I did.” The boy turned to her, eyes narrowing slightly. “Why do you ask? Are you going to copy from me again?”
The girl smiled brightly and batted her eyelashes at him.
“Pretty please?” she asked, her voice soft and coaxing.
Before he could answer, a voice cut through the air.
“Hey, Jun! I was looking all over for you. Let’s go home now!”
The boy stiffened.
“It’s my stepdad.” He stood quickly, brushing the sand off his clothes. There was urgency in the way he moved now. “I’d better go home before he gets angry.” He hesitated for only a second. “I’ll come to school early tomorrow so you can copy.”
Then he ran toward the man waiting beyond the playground.
That night, a fierce thunderstorm hit the city.
Rain lashed against rooftops. Wind howled through narrow streets. Thunder rolled like something vast and restless moving across the sky.
At the edge of a quiet property, in the yard of a modest house, a small brown puppy lay curled beside a newly planted pine tree.
The soil there was still loose. Fresh.
The puppy whimpered, its tiny body trembling as rain soaked through its fur. It did not move from its place—not even when lightning split the sky open for a heartbeat of blinding white.
It simply stayed.
Crying. Waiting.
Cecilia woke before the world did.
Three in the morning—same as always.
By the time the first hints of dawn crept over the horizon, she was already on her way to the market, moving with quiet familiarity through streets that still belonged to shadows and stray dogs.
The air smelled faintly of salt as she reached the fish port.
Luck was on her side that day.
She arrived early—early enough to secure the best selection. Six large tubs, filled with fresh catch, still gleaming with the sheen of the sea.
By sunrise, she had everything set.
The tubs were arranged neatly beside her usual spot. Her chopping board rested securely in place, knife sharpened, pliers ready. A pail sat nearby, half-filled with water, waiting to collect scales and innards.
Then Cecilia sat down, drew in a breath, and began her call.
“Tilapia, GG, and Milkfish! Fresh off the boat! I’ll even clean them up for you while you wait!”
Her voice carried easily through the growing noise of the market.
Customers came quickly.
And just like the day before, the fish were gone in record time.
Five hours.
Not a single piece left.
By late morning, Cecilia was on her way home.
But somewhere along the way, her feet carried her elsewhere.
The abandoned port stood silent, just as it always did—weathered wood, rusted fixtures, and the quiet groan of old structures shifting with the wind.
And there, looming beyond it—
The Twilight.
It did not belong.
Not to the port. Not to the world Cecilia knew.
Its massive form rested against the dock, bound by thick mooring lines that looked more like restraints than anchors. The gangway stretched downward, and along it—
Passengers.
Some moved slowly. Some hesitated.
Some needed guidance.
Cecilia walked forward without stopping.
Past the ropes.
Past the silence.
And onto the ship.
She was barely a few steps in when she was spotted.
“Miss Bermudez! What are you—”
The sentence never finished.
The smell reached them first.
Chief Murillo recoiled, pinching her nose almost instantly. Beside her, Helmsman Martinez turned his head sharply, his expression tightening as the scent hit him just as hard.
“Miss Bermudez,” Murillo managed, her voice thin and strained as she fought through it, “why are you here?”
Cecilia blinked at them, then smiled.
“The water in your room has been fixed,” Martinez said quickly, as if eager to get the words out before the smell worsened. “You can take a shower if you like.”
“Really? Thanks!”
Cecilia stepped forward and extended her hand.
Neither of them moved.
They stayed exactly where they were.
Far. Far away.
Her smile faltered into a small pout.
“For ghosts, you two sure have sensitive noses.”
“You’re a bit early,” Murillo said, still holding her breath. “We won’t set sail until six.”
Before Cecilia could respond, a disturbance rose from the boarding area below.
Voices.
Crying.
She turned and moved toward the railing, looking down.
A young boy stood near the ramp, clutching at nothing, his small frame shaking as tears streamed down his face. Beside him stood a guardian—calm, unmoving, patient.
“No, I can’t go!” the boy cried. “Jenny, my friend—she’s all alone. I can’t leave yet!”
The words pulled at something deep and immediate inside Cecilia.
She didn’t think.
She moved.
“Excuse me,” she said gently as she approached, catching the guardian’s attention. “May I?”
The guardian stepped aside.
Cecilia knelt in front of the boy.
Up close, he looked even younger than she expected. Still dressed in pajamas. Still shaking.
“What’s your name?” she asked softly.
“Jun,” he said between sobs.
“Is there a problem?” Cecilia asked. “Do you miss your friends? You’ll make new ones here.”
Jun shook his head violently.
“You don’t understand!” he cried. “My friend Jenny is all alone and scared. I have to make sure she’s okay before I can go!”
The desperation in his voice cut through the noise around them.
It wasn’t just fear.
It was responsibility.
“What is this commotion?”
The voice came from behind them—sharp, commanding, impossible to ignore.
Everything stilled.
Cecilia turned.
A man stood there, watching the scene with a hard, unreadable expression.
Captain Chris.
“You let the other passengers in,” he said coldly. “Don’t make them wait just because of some runt.”
Something in Cecilia snapped.
She stood and closed the distance between them in two quick steps.
“What is the matter with you?!”
Her hand struck his shoulder.
Not hard—but enough.
Chris flinched.
“Can’t you see the boy is in distress over his friend?” she continued, her voice rising. “Can’t you be a little more sensitive to your passengers?”
He stared at her.
Silent.
Unmoving.
“What?” she pressed. “Can’t speak? Cat got your tongue?”
Chris’s expression twisted.
“No,” he said flatly. “You stink.”
Then he gagged.
Cecilia froze.
For exactly one second.
Then she lunged.
She threw her arms around him, pressing herself firmly against his coat.
“What the—get off of me!” Chris recoiled, struggling immediately. “You stink, Pink!”
Behind them, Murillo and Martinez stared in stunned silence—keeping their distance, unwilling to risk being caught in the same fate.
“Never!” Cecilia tightened her grip. “I won’t let go until we both smell the same! And if you don’t listen to that boy, I’ll come here smelling like fish every single day and cling to you again!”
Chris visibly paled.
“Okay—fine!” he snapped. “Just let go of me. I said let go, Pink!”
Cecilia didn’t budge.
“Okay, fine!” he groaned. “I’ll talk to the boy!”
She leaned back slightly, eyeing him.
“Promise?”
Chris nodded quickly.
“Say it.”
“I promise I’ll talk to the boy,” he said through gritted teeth, leaning as far away from her as he could manage.
Cecilia narrowed her eyes.
“And?”
Chris blinked.
Confused.
Then he looked down at her—still clinging, still very much determined.
“Promise you’ll help him too,” she said.
