The ceiling fan creaked softly above him, turning slow and lazy in the Guam night heat. Estobaner lay on his back, eyes fixed on the darkened blades, but his mind wasn't anywhere near sleep.
The house was quiet. Too quiet. No TV humming from the living room. No rustle of Grandma's slippers. Even Meowth, usually snoring like a tiny, fluffy engine, was silent at the foot of his bed.
But the quiet didn't feel calm tonight.
He rolled onto his side, staring at the faint strip of moonlight slipping in through the window. The news replayed in his head like a scratched record—the shark attack, the tourists screaming, the anchor's voice saying "black ripples."
He told himself it was just a normal attack. It had to be. Guam had sharks. It happened.
And yet… something in his gut kept whispering, No, it wasn't just that.
His instincts weren't loud. Just that soft, weightless pressure in the back of his chest. The same instinct that made him notice things other people missed. The same one that wouldn't shut up now.
Estobaner sat up slowly, the bedsheet slipping off his shoulders. The night breeze brushing through the window carried the faintest smell of salt—like the ocean was breathing just outside.
Nothing about the room seemed out of place. Posters on the wall. Half-read books stacked on the nightstand. A manga volume face down on his pillow. But still, the silence pressed down on him.
He ran a hand through his hair and muttered under his breath, "Why does it feel like something's waiting…"
For a long moment, he just sat there, listening—to nothing. And yet… every part of him felt something.
His eyes drifted toward the old wooden wardrobe tucked into the corner of his room. It was a hand-me-down, the kind that had been here longer than he had. He'd never paid much attention to it before.
But tonight, the thin crack of light bleeding out from its bottom edge made his breath hitch.
The wardrobe door was supposed to be shut.
Estobaner blinked again at the faint strip of light. The wardrobe door was ajar, just slightly, the gap no wider than a finger.
He frowned. "…Did I… leave it open?" he muttered, wracking his memory. He didn't remember opening it after he'd put away his clothes earlier.
A soft creak echoed as the fan above turned lazily, almost as if the room itself were sighing. He stepped closer, heart picking up pace, and gently pushed the door. It moved without resistance, revealing the familiar rows of clothes inside. Everything looked… normal.
He exhaled slowly, relief washing over him. Probably just forgot to close it this morning. That happened sometimes.
A small, uneasy thought pricked at the back of his mind, Mom used to say I should watch out for forgetting things… He hadn't thought much of it back then. Mom had been… gone for years now, since he was thirteen.
The memory made his chest tighten. The wardrobe, the faint strip of light—it all felt heavier somehow, like a quiet echo of things he didn't fully understand.
Estobaner's fingers drifted to the top shelf of the wardrobe, where a small, folded bundle had sat untouched for years. His mother's shirt—soft, faded, and smelling faintly of the sea breeze he remembered from her hugs. He picked it up carefully, almost reverently, letting the fabric slip through his hands like a ghost of the past.
Beneath it, a worn photograph rested in a thin frame. It showed him, much younger, sitting on the sand at Tumon Beach, his mother crouched behind him with arms wrapped around his shoulders. Both were laughing, the kind of pure, careless joy he hadn't felt in years.
His throat tightened, and he sank onto the floor, holding both the shirt and the photo close. The moonlight fell across them, catching the edges of the picture and illuminating her smiling face.
For a moment, the quiet of the room pressed in—not the tense, unsettling quiet from before, but a soft, almost sacred stillness. Estobaner whispered into the shadows, "I miss you, Mom."
The air felt heavier, charged with memory and longing. And somewhere beneath the ache, a whisper of instinct nudged him forward, reminding him that the world was still full of things unseen… things he might need to notice.
Estobaner hugged the shirt tighter, letting the scent of his mother's perfume linger in his nose.
The world shifted, and suddenly he was seven again, standing barefoot on Tumon Beach. Sunlight danced across the water, sparkling like scattered gems. His mother crouched beside him, pointing at a tiny crab scuttling across the sand.
"See? They're explorers, just like you," she said, her voice warm and soft.
He laughed, trying to catch the crab, but it darted away. She chuckled too, the sound bright, curling around him like sunlight.
Later, they built a small sandcastle near the water, decorating it with shells and driftwood. She never rushed him, never grew impatient—every little detail mattered to her.
"Perfect," she said, stepping back to admire their creation. "You've got a good eye, Estobaner. Better than mine."
Estobaner's mother crouched beside him, her fingers tracing patterns in the wet sand. But his eyes weren't on her hands—they were on her face.
Her eyes… they were like the crystal-blue ocean, reflecting the sky above, wide and bright, full of warmth and laughter. When she looked at him, it was as if the sunlight itself had pooled there, spilling over everything around them.
He watched her smile, the corners of her eyes crinkling just so, catching the glint of the sun. The world seemed to pause in that moment: the soft rush of waves, the salty breeze, the distant cry of seagulls—all framed by the calm, endless blue of her gaze.
Even the small things—the way her hair swayed in the wind, the gentle tilt of her head, the careful way she stepped around tide pools—felt magical to him. Her eyes made the ordinary sparkle, made the beach feel bigger, safer, and somehow endless.
He reached for a small shell, holding it out to her. She leaned closer, her eyes meeting his, and said, "Look at that, Estobaner… just like the ones in our castle."
And for a moment, the world was nothing but him, the sand, the waves, and her eyes.
The sun had climbed higher, warming the sand and making the shells sparkle. Estobaner's mother spread out a small blanket, setting down a simple lunch: sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, a few pieces of tropical fruit, and a thermos of sweet iced tea.
"Careful with the mango, niño," she said, slicing it into bite-sized pieces. Her eyes caught his, bright and teasing, and he grinned back, eager to taste the sweet fruit.
Grandma Felicia and Grandpa Nomad arrived shortly after, carrying a small basket of cookies and a jar of homemade lemonade. Felicia's laugh rang through the air, soft and melodic, and Nomad's deep voice boomed as he teased, "You better save me a piece, Estobaner, or I'll have to take it by force!"
Estobaner laughed, the sound mingling with the waves, the wind, and the seagulls. They all sat together on the blanket, passing food and stories back and forth. His mother kept checking on him, ruffling his hair, joking about how messy he was with sandwiches.
"Your father would have laughed at this mess," she said softly, a wistful smile playing on her lips. "But I think it's perfect, just like it is."
He watched her carefully, memorizing the way the light hit her hair, the sparkle in her eyes when she laughed, the gentle way she guided him to try new things. The ordinary lunch felt magical—safe, warm, and full of love.
Even Nomad, usually gruff and slow to show emotion, seemed lighter that day, joking about cookies and teasing Estobaner with mock sternness. Felicia's hands were always busy—pouring lemonade, passing fruit, fixing napkins—but her eyes constantly found her grandson and daughter-in-law, sharing silent moments that spoke volumes.
Estobaner felt a happiness so complete that it made his chest ache—a feeling he knew, even then, he might not see again in the same way.
The sun was sliding low, spilling soft orange light over the shore. Their little picnic spot—just a few steps from the water—was scattered with snack wrappers, half-empty juice boxes, and a few shells Estobaner had collected earlier. Laughter still hung in the air like fading music.
Grandpa Normad suddenly paused, tapping his forehead.
"Oh no… I forgot to feed Meowth!"
Grandma Felicia gave a soft gasp. "Normad, that poor cat will shred the sofa again if he's hungry." She turned to Estobaner's mom, brushing the sand off her skirt. "We'll head home first. You finish up here with the boy."
She started gathering her sunhat while Grandpa chuckled nervously, already dusting off his hands.
Mom nodded, folding a towel and flashing them that calm smile Estobaner always remembered. "Go on ahead, Mom. Dad. I'll pack up the rest."
"Estobaner, follow Grandma," she added gently, crouching down to fix a bit of sand from his cheek. "I'll be right behind you."
He didn't want to go. The beach was still warm beneath his feet, the air smelled of salt and summer. But Grandma was already calling him from the path, and Grandpa waved a hand impatiently.
"Come on, champ! Meowth's stomach waits for no one."
Estobaner turned back once more. His mom was standing by the picnic mat, her hair catching the last orange streaks of the sun, the sea wind brushing through it like a slow wave. She waved at him with that same soft smile—the kind he never forgot.
"Don't dawdle," she said.
He ran after his grandparents, the light behind him slowly fading to gold… then to gray.
Somewhere down the path, the noise came again—muffled this time, but enough to make people pause mid-step. A few turned their heads. Others started moving faster, uneasy without knowing why.
Estobaner felt a chill crawl up his spine, though the air was still warm.