(Riki Dela Peña — Cubao, 2051)
The rain had softened to a drizzle outside Aling Bebang's Eatery.
Steam rose from the kitchen, carrying the smell of garlic, soy, and something sweet burning at the edge of perfect.
The photos on the wall hadn't moved in years.
Flowstate — arms over shoulders, sweat still wet, eyes wild with youth.
At the center, the tall one — Teo Alvarado.
Smiling like he didn't know he was the anchor of all of them.
Across the table sat Arin Sol, older now, his mother's warmth in his expression.
He'd asked a simple question:
ARIN:
What happened to Teo, Kuya?
Everyone talks about Renz or Lars, but not him.
Riki leaned back, eyes tracing the ceiling.
He'd told this story before — but never out loud.
THE SUMMER AFTER THE CUP
RIKI:
It started after the second Governor's Cup.
We'd just beaten Imperium.
Everyone thought that was our peak.
But Teo didn't celebrate.
He stayed behind after the lights went out — still standing at center court, palms open, staring at the rim like it had asked him a question he couldn't answer.
Riki smiled faintly.
RIKI:
I think that's the moment I knew he was leaving.
THE LETTER
RIKI:
Two weeks later, his dad collapsed again.
The doctors said it was time.
They left for Japan before the season even ended.
He didn't say goodbye in person.
Just left me a letter taped to the locker.
Riki's voice dropped, remembering the words like they were printed on his skin.
"Coach, thank you for giving me rhythm when I only knew stillness."
"I'll bring that rhythm wherever I go."
— Teo
He took a sip of cold coffee.
RIKI:
You'd think I'd be angry. But I wasn't.
I was proud.
Not everyone gets to leave on their own terms.
THE YEARS IN BETWEEN
RIKI:
The first few years were quiet.
We kept playing, kept training new kids.
But it was different without him.
Flowstate was built around Teo's silence.
When he was gone, the rest of us had to fill it with noise.
He smiled, half-bittersweet.
RIKI:
Renz tried to take the lead — broke his shoulder.
Lars ran himself into exhaustion.
Drei started coaching.
Everyone tried to fill that space he left behind.
None of us could.
JAPAN
RIKI:
I didn't hear from him for years.
Then one day, I got a message.
Just a photo.
Him standing beside a group of kids — small, wearing mismatched shoes.
Caption said:
"First practice. They play slow. They listen fast."
Riki chuckled quietly.
RIKI:
He was coaching in Sendai.
Same way we used to play here — small gym, leaky roof, borrowed lights.
Said he teaches balance, not power.
Said he tells them about the Philippines sometimes — about a place where basketball was chaos and grace at the same time.
THE VISIT
Riki looked down at his hands.
RIKI:
He came back once.
2036, maybe.
He didn't tell anyone.
Just showed up at the bridge court, same one behind this shop.
Lars spotted him first.
They hugged like brothers who'd both survived a war.
He looked smaller somehow.
Not in height — in weight.
Like he'd finally set something down.
ARIN:
Did he play?
Riki smiled.
RIKI:
One game.
Two minutes.
He passed every possession.
Didn't shoot once.
Then he left before it got dark.
AFTERWARDS
RIKI:
A few years later, I heard his dad passed.
After that, he never came back.
But every so often, I still get letters.
Short ones.
Last one said —
"The kids here dribble like the rain. They never stop, even when it's cold."
He laughed quietly.
RIKI:
That's Teo.
Always found beauty in things that didn't ask for it.
WHAT HE LEFT BEHIND
RIKI:
People think Renz was our ace.
Or Lars our spark.
But Teo...
he was the center of gravity.
When he moved, everything else aligned.
When he left, we had to relearn balance without him.
He looked up.
Aling Bebang was wiping the counter, listening quietly but pretending not to.
BEBANG:
That tall boy ate ten cups of rice once.
Never complained.
Always said thank you.
RIKI:
That's him. Polite even to destiny.
THE QUIET END
The eatery had gone still.
Even the rain seemed to wait.
ARIN:
So what happened to Flowstate after that?
RIKI:
We kept playing.
Some left. Some stayed.
But Teo leaving was when I realized — we were never meant to last forever.
We were meant to learn how to pass it on.
Riki looked out the window, eyes catching the reflection of the court outside — now patched, repainted, alive with new voices.
RIKI:
Every time a tall kid sets his feet right, I think of him.
He didn't just change how we played.
He changed what we thought "playing" meant.
[Coda — The Unsent Letter]
When the gym finally emptied and the echoes faded, someone swept the confetti into silence.
Under the scorer's table, half-buried beneath tape and dust, lay a single envelope — edges curled, name smudged by sweat and time.
It was addressed in Riki's handwriting.
"To: T.A."
No one ever mailed it.
No one ever claimed it.
Years later, when the city's lights had changed color and the bridge was quieter, the letter was still there — waiting for a name that never came back.
FLOWSTATE — "THE ONE WHO LEFT QUIETLY"
Cubao, 2051.
Some anchors hold you steady. Others teach you how to drift without sinking.
End of Saga