We Meet Again

Chapter- 12 Encounter

The rooftop of their high school, 5 years ago.

​Jullian was the only person who didn't look at me with pity for my "memory lapses." He made me laugh when I couldn't remember the names of my teachers. He bought me street food and told me stories about a future we’d build together, far away from the "bad dreams" I kept having.

​"You're overthinking again, Elena," Jullian said, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. We were sitting on the edge of the roof, the city lights twinkling like fallen stars.

​"I just feel like I'm missing something important, Jullian. Like there's a person I'm supposed to be looking for."

​Jullian’s smile faltered for a micro-second—a flicker of something that looked like fear. But then he pulled me closer. "You're not missing anything. You're right here. With me. Isn't that enough?"

​I looked into his eyes and felt a wave of peace. "Yes. It's enough."

The height of the rainy season. The school is empty, but Elena is sitting on the stairs of the rooftop, clutching her head as a migraine tears through her focus. She is 17.

​I felt like my brain was trying to delete itself. The static in my head was so loud I couldn't hear the rain hitting the metal roof. Then, the door creaked open.

​"The doctor said you should be resting, not hiding up here," Jullian said. He didn't come closer immediately; he knew I hated being touched when the pain was bad. He just sat on the step below me, his back turned so I could lean on him if I wanted.

​"I can't remember my father's face today, Jullian," I whispered, my voice breaking. "Every time I try to see him, it’s like looking through a broken lens."

As the rain slowed to a drizzle, Jullian stood up and offered his hand.

​"The Junior-Senior Prom is next month. You said you weren't going because you'd probably forget the steps."

​"I will," I laughed weakly. "I'll step on your toes."

​"Then we won't dance the steps," he said, pulling me up. He put his hands on my waist and started a slow, rhythmic sway. "We’ll just move. No memory required. Just the music."

​We danced on that rooftop, surrounded by the smell of wet concrete and the distant sound of Manila traffic. In his arms, the "Missing Midnight" didn't matter. The "Narra Tree" was just a plant I didn't know. I was Elena, and he was Jullian, and for three years, that was the only truth I needed.

Inside the gymnasium, Jullian led me to a quiet corner near the trophies. He took my hand and slipped something cool and silver onto my wrist—a delicate, elegant watch.

​"Para saan 'to?" I asked, watching the second hand sweep smoothly around the dial.

​"Para hindi mo na kailangang magtanong kung anong oras na," Jullian whispered, his eyes locking onto mine. "This watch doesn't care about yesterday. It only moves forward. Let this be our time, Elena. Just you and me, starting from now."

​I felt a surge of happiness. With the ticking on my wrist, the "Missing Midnight" felt less like a hole and more like a closed door. I felt safe. I felt chosen.

Outside, standing at the school gates, was a boy the world believed was dead. Nicko had risked everything to return from Spain for one night. He was soaked to the bone, his expensive coat heavy with rainwater.

​In his hands, he held a book—not the blue notebook, but a journal he had written in Spain. It was a collection of every memory he had of Elena, every secret he had uncovered about their fathers, and a plan to get her away from the Velosos forever. It was his "Book of Truth."

​But as he watched through the glass doors, he saw it. He saw Jullian fastening the watch. He saw me smile—a genuine, radiant smile I had never given him in our childhood.

​The rain didn't just soak Nicko; it seeped into the pages of his journal. The ink—the evidence of his love and the truth of the Alcasids—began to bleed. The letters ran together like tears. The names, the dates, the confessions... they became nothing more than dark, illegible stains on pulp.

Nicko looked down at the ruined book in his hands. He realized then that even if he ran inside and shouted the truth, the "Book of Nicko and Elena" was unreadable now. The rain had finished what the fire started.

​He didn't enter. He turned back into the storm, dropping the wet, heavy book into a gutter. As the pages tore apart in the rushing water, the chapter of his life as her "Prince" officially ended.

The Bell Tower of Sto. Domingo stood like a jagged tooth against the skyline, its clock face frozen at the exact moment of the 2008 tragedy. For Nicko, this place was the graveyard of his hope.

Nicko climbed the rotting wooden stairs of the tower, his breath hitching in the damp air. He had spent the last hour scouring the base, searching for the "foundation" Elena’s father had mentioned. But the stones were silent, and the shadows were long.

​He reached the top, standing just behind the massive, rusted gears of the Great Clock. He looked at the heavy brass weights and the dust-covered bell.

​"It’s gone," Nicko whispered to the empty air. "Everything is gone."

​He looked at his hands—scarred from the fights in Spain, stained with the mud of Sto. Domingo. He thought of the journal that had dissolved in the rain four years ago. He thought of Jullian’s silver watch ticking on Elena’s wrist. He felt the crushing weight of being the "wrong" son at the "wrong" time.

​He was ready to walk away. He was ready to let the Alcasid name sink into the earth and never look back. He turned toward the stairs, his head bowed in defeat.