The sea stretched endlessly ahead, gray on gray — the kind of calm that feels heavier than storm.
Kenta stood on the cargo deck of the Kurogane Line, watching the spray curl off the ship's bow.
The GR86 sat below in the hold, lashed down between containers, its body still glistening with salt.
He'd been awake all night, unable to sleep.
Every time he closed his eyes, the streets of Sendai came back — the neon reflection of Harbor Noodles, the police lights, his father's stillness.
Now there was only the low hum of engines and the taste of metal in the air.
Kaiya was in the galley helping the cooks — she couldn't stand still long enough to worry.
Teo stayed with the dockhands, quiet, moving crates and ropes as if muscle memory had never left him.
Kenta sometimes caught the men watching his father, whispering, unsure what kind of man worked like that and never spoke.
He leaned over the railing and stared at the horizon until the water and sky became one line.
By noon, the ship reached Manila Bay.
The sun broke through the clouds — a sharp, foreign gold that felt too close, too alive.
Kaiya called from below deck, voice bright but tired.
Teo wiped his hands and joined her, eyes narrowing at the skyline — not wary, not afraid. Just remembering how it felt to start over.
Kenta followed them off the ship.
The air hit first — humid, sweet, alive.
Cars, horns, the smell of frying garlic from food stalls along the port road.
Everything felt louder, closer.
The GR86 rolled behind them, its engine echoing softly, a heartbeat that refused to fade.
They drove until the sky turned orange.
Past Pasig, through EDSA, and finally into Cubao — the city dense and alive, electric wires tangled like veins over rooftops.
The rain had come and gone, leaving steam rising off the streets.
At a stoplight, Kenta looked out the window.
Beneath the bridge, on a cracked half-court marked with chalk, a group of kids played basketball barefoot.
Their laughter carried over the noise of traffic.
One of them missed a layup; the ball bounced and rolled toward a man sitting on the bench under the bridge's shadow.
He caught it in one hand, spun it once on his finger, then passed it back with effortless rhythm.
"Use your left hand!" he called.
"Don't fight the bounce — feel it."
The man's voice was warm, steady.
Kenta didn't know why it caught him.
Something about the rhythm — not the words, the timing.
The man wore a faded Manila State University jacket, sleeves pushed up, a whistle hanging from his neck.
Older now, hair streaked gray, eyes kind.
He laughed when the kids tripped over each other, clapping them back into motion.
Teo looked up from the driver's seat, just once.
Didn't say a word.
His hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel, then relaxed.
The light turned green.
They drove on.
Kenta turned back as the bridge receded behind them.
The man was still there, crouched beside the court, drawing a line in the chalk.
A name carved into the concrete's edge: Aling Bebang's Court.
He didn't know who it was for, but the name felt familiar — like something that had been waiting.
Night came slow.
Kaiya leaned against the window, humming under her breath — an old tune she couldn't place.
Teo drove without the radio, the soft hum of the GR86 filling the silence.
"It feels smaller here," Kenta said quietly.
"No," Teo answered. "Just closer."
They passed through the old market, lanterns glowing red over wet pavement.
Kenta watched the lights reflect against the hood of the car — the same soft shimmer that once danced across the Sendai docks.
He didn't know what would happen next — whether the road ahead was home or hiding.
But for the first time, it didn't matter.
The road remembered enough for all of them.
At the edge of the city, they stopped by the sea.
The waves lapped against the concrete wall, black water under yellow streetlights.
Kaiya stepped out first, letting the wind hit her face.
"Welcome home," she said softly.
Teo didn't reply.
He just stood there, watching the horizon where water met night.
Kenta looked at the GR86, salt still crusted on its sides, paint dulled but whole.
He placed a hand on the roof.
"Guess we made it."
Kaiya smiled faintly.
"Cars have memories, you know."
He laughed once.
"Yeah. So do roads."
The sound of distant laughter drifted from the city — kids playing, somewhere under a bridge.
Teo lit the shop lighter he'd kept since Sendai, its flame barely surviving the wind.
He stared at it for a second, then flicked it closed.
They stood together, the three of them —
not as a legend, not as a myth,
just a family the world had almost forgotten to look for.
"And for the first time in years, the road ahead felt quiet enough to belong to them."
End of Episode 17 — "Departure"