It was another day in the Philippines. As usual, it was raining since it was the rainy season.
A kid, not yet in his teenage years, kept walking even though he was soaked from the heavy rain. He looked tired, hungry, and sad. He came from a provincial city in the Bicol region, where he was the son of a farmer.
He was once full of happiness. A kind person who always tried his best to help his father on the farm, hoping to ease his burden, even just a little. He tried his best. He really did.
But one day, as the rain poured heavily, he saw his mother crying while staring at a few hundred paper bills. He kept asking himself why she was crying when there was money in front of her—almost five thousand pesos at most. His father sat silently, hitting his head against the wall of their small kubo. His little sister, only a year old, cried loudly, her wails mixing with the sound of the rain.
Then his mother shouted,
"God, why?! Why?"
as she broke down in tears.
That night, after the storm passed, he woke up hungry. He hadn't eaten anything since morning. He saw his father outside, talking to a man in an extravagant suit—clean and expensive-looking. His father was begging in front of the man, saying,
"Please, sir, please understand our situation. We didn't expect the storm to hit that hard. Please, we haven't eaten at all today because we had to pay the ransom and the debt I owe you. Please, give me a few days. I'll pay it all. Just give me at least four—no, three—wait, at least give me the whole day tomorrow. I'll pay everything I owe you. So please, don't take our land. It was given to me by my ancestors. It's the only thing we have left, so plea—"
The businessman cut him off with a punch to the stomach and said,
"You expect me to give you more time? You know, I don't hate giving people money. I don't hate giving people things." He smirked. "But one thing I really hate the most is giving poor, dirt-cheap people like you my precious time."
His men began beating the farmer.
"It's your fault for being this unlucky,"
the businessman said.
"Maybe in your next life, you'll get lucky. But here, you won't be. You never will."
The kid tried to step forward to help his father, but someone pulled him back—it was his mother. She was crying, holding his wrist tightly. Her grip was so strong that his wrist turned red, but he still struggled to break free. He wanted to shout, but no words came out. He wanted to get help, but he didn't know how.
He didn't know how much time had passed. Exhausted, he fell asleep while trying to reach his father, who was still being beaten.
When he woke up, he was on a carabao. His father was riding it, his face full of guilt. He looked at his son and smiled as if nothing had happened that night.
"Ah, you're awake, son,"
he said softly.
"Here, eat this pandesal. You must be hungry."
The boy looked around. Something felt wrong. He couldn't recognize any familiar place. There were only trees and the road ahead.
His instincts told him to run back home, but he couldn't. He couldn't see his mother or his baby sister—the ones he loved the most.