We Meet Again

Chapter- 11 Is this the end ?

Elena closed her eyes, and suddenly the sound of the nearby highway faded, replaced by the ghost of a childhood melodyShe remembered the day they carved their initials. Nicko had used a small rock, his tongue poking out in concentration, while Elena watched for the "bantay" (guard).Deep in the ridges of the bark, the faint, scarred "N + E" was still there—stretched by time and growth, but indestructible. It reminded her that even when they were apart, they were growing together.She remembered the "Great Typhoon of 2008." While the world was screaming in the wind, she and Nicko had huddled in the hollow of the tree.Nicko had shared his jacket, smelling of expensive laundry soap and the Narra’s vanilla-like scent.It was the first time she realized that "Rich" and "Poor" didn't matter when you were both shivering. The tree was their neutral ground, a kingdom where money had no value.Elena remembered sitting on a thick root that looked like a natural chair. She was humming a tune her Lola sang, and Nicko was scribbling it into the blue notebook.Looking at the tree now, she realized the musical notes followed the pattern of the branches—a chaotic but beautiful climb toward the sky.As Elena’s fingers found the hidden knot where the files were once kept, a final memory hit her—the last day she saw her father, Eduardo.

​"Elena," he had said, kneeling in the dirt under this very tree. "If the sky ever turns gray and you feel lost, come back to the Narra. The tree doesn't have a side. It only has roots. It will tell you who you are."

Elena opened her eyes. The sun was filtering through the heart-shaped leaves, casting dappled shadows on her white doctor’s coat.

​"Nakikita mo rin ba sila, Elena?" (Do you see them too, Elena?)

​She turned to see Nicko standing a few feet away. He wasn't looking at her; he was looking at the branch where they used to sit.

​"I see two kids who had no idea the world was about to break," Elena whispered.

​"The world broke," Nicko said, stepping closer and placing his hand on the bark next to hers. "But the tree held on. And so did we."

​For the first time in years, Elena didn't feel like the orphan of a "criminal" or the victim of a "prince." She was just the girl from the Narra tree, finally home.

The air under the Narra tree felt different now—lighter, as if the tree itself had been holding its breath since 2008. Elena stood between the two men who had defined her past, her hand still resting on the scarred bark of their childhood.

I'm sorry, Nicko," Elena whispered, her voice thick with the kind of regret that only time can create. "I spent so many years trying to survive that I buried you. I buried the song, the promises... I even buried the memory of the boy who gave me half his sandwich under this tree. I treated you like an enemy when you were the only piece of my father I had left."

Nicko didn't look away. He didn't have the cold, distant gaze of a CEO or the haunted eyes of a cage fighter. He looked at her with the same warmth he had when they were eight.

​"Don't apologize for surviving, Elena," Nicko said softly. He stepped forward, placing his hand over hers on the trunk. "You didn't forget the promise; you kept it alive by becoming the woman you are. My father took your father’s life, but he couldn't take your heart. I don't blame you for forgetting me. I’m just grateful the music brought you back.

A few feet away, Jullian leaned against his car. For the first time since he had donned a police uniform, his shoulders weren't hunched with tension. He watched them—the Prince and the Doctor—and for once, he didn't feel the sharp sting of jealousy.

​"I feel it too," Jullian said, catching their attention. He looked at the discarded badge in his hand, then tossed it into the glove box. "Justice isn't always a gavel hitting a bench or a man in a cell. Sometimes, justice is just... the truth being allowed to breathe."

​He walked over to them, joining the circle under the shade.

​"I spent my whole life chasing Eduardo Magdallena because I thought he was the shadow on my father’s career," Jullian admitted. "But finding out the truth—even the ugly parts about my own blood—is the first time I’ve felt like I’m not living a lie. I’m relieved, Elena. Not because I won, but because I’m finally on the right side of the story."

The three of them stood there—three children of Sto. Domingo who had been used as pawns in a game of greed.

Flashback

sterile, white hospital room in Manila. Elena is 18, waking up from a series of experimental treatments to recover from the chronic migraines that have plagued her since her 11th birthday.

​I opened my eyes, and the world was too bright. My mother, Maria, was sitting by the bed, her rosary beads clicking rhythmically. She looked older than her years—tired, guarded, as if she were waiting for a bomb to go off.

​"Ma?" my voice was raspy. "Who... who is the boy in the orange shirt?"

​My mother froze. "Ano’ng pinagsasabi mo, Elena? You were dreaming again. The doctor said the surgery might cause vivid dreams."

​"It wasn't a dream," I whispered. I could almost see a blurry face under a Narra tree. A boy handing me a White Rabbit candy. A boy who called me 'Princess.' "He was there, Ma. In the fire. He was trying to pull me out."

My mother stood up and took my hand, her grip uncomfortably tight.

​"Listen to me, Elena. There was no boy. There was no fire. You fell from the attic on your birthday, remember? The doctors in Sto. Domingo said the trauma made you imagine things to cope with the pain. Huwag mo nang hanapin ang wala doon."

Three months later, Elena is back in school, wearing a thick bandage over a surgical scar on her temple. She is a shadow of herself, struggling to remember names, struggling to feel 'real.'

​I was sitting in the library, staring at a history book, when a shadow fell over my desk. I looked up and saw a boy with sharp eyes and a leather jacket. He looked like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

​"You're Elena Magdallena," he said. It wasn't a question.

​"Do I know you?" I asked, my heart racing for a reason I couldn't explain.

​"I'm Jullian," he replied, sitting across from me. He didn't look like the "Prince" from my dreams. He looked like a protector. "I’m the new student. My father... he’s a police officer. He told me to make sure you don't get lost in these halls."

As Jullian helped me pack my bags, a small scrap of paper fell out of my notebook. It was a sketch I had drawn in my sleep—a rough outline of a Narra tree.

​Jullian picked it up. His hand shook for a fraction of a second, a flicker of recognition passing through his eyes before he masked it with a cold, professional smile.

​"Nice tree," he said, handing it back. "But you should focus on the present, Elena. The past is just a place where people get hurt."