Chapter 2 – Before the Storm
891 Words
(Leonardo’s POV, 1895)
The ink smudged slightly as Leonardo pressed the quill harder than he meant to.
He sighed and leaned back, staring at the half-written letter resting on his desk. The candle beside him flickered, casting a warm glow across the room, but it did little to chase away the heaviness settling in his chest.
Outside, the crickets sang, and the moon bathed the old Navarro estate in silver. Still, the house felt colder than usual tonight, as if it already knew what was coming.
He dipped the quill again and wrote:
My dearest Celestina,
I write this by candlelight, as the town sleeps and my thoughts betray me once more.
His hand paused.
What was he even doing?
He folded the letter without signing it and set it aside. It would be the fifth one he never sent.
Celestina.
The very name felt like a prayer and a punishment.
He stood and walked to the open window, resting his hands on the sill. From here, he could see the garden below—the garden where she once danced barefoot in the rain, her laughter echoing in his ears long after the storm had passed.
She was the governor’s daughter. He was just the son of the family’s trusted steward. They were born into different worlds. He was taught to keep his head down, to speak only when spoken to, to never forget his place.
But how could he forget when she never followed the rules?
Celestina would sneak out during siesta to bring him mangoes from the kitchen. She’d sit under the narra tree with her books, pretending to read, but asking him about the stars, about music, about dreams that didn’t belong to girls like her.
And he… he had answered her every time, even when it hurt.
He remembered the first time she touched his hand. A small gesture—barely anything. But his heart had raced for days.
He remembered the way her voice cracked when she told him, “You make me feel like I can be someone else when I’m with you.”
But that was months ago.
Now, everything was different.
There were whispers of rebellion in the towns. Men in the plaza talked in hushed tones. Some had already vanished—taken to the mountains, rumored to be training with weapons. The Spanish soldiers patrolled more aggressively. Even Don Alfredo Navarro, Celestina’s father, had stopped hosting guests and started watching his staff more closely.
Leonardo had received a letter two days ago. A summons, really.
He was to report to the garrison in San Ildefonso. They were recruiting young men—Filipino men—to act as aides to the Spanish officers. A “service of honor,” they said. But everyone knew what it meant.
They were preparing for war.
He clenched his fists. What “honor” was there in dying for a country that never called you its own?
“Leonardo?”
He turned quickly.
There she was—Celestina—standing at the doorway in her nightdress, her dark hair loose over her shoulders. Her presence always stunned him, like the first breath after being underwater too long.
“I… I heard movement,” she said, stepping into the room. “I thought I saw a light.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said softly, looking away. “If your father finds out—”
“He won’t.” She approached him quietly. “You’ve been distant.”
He didn’t answer.
“Are you leaving?” she asked.
Leonardo looked at her. “Yes.”
Her lips trembled. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wanted to,” he said. “But wanting is not enough.”
She took a step closer. “And what if I asked you to stay?”
He hesitated. “Then I’d still have to go.”
Silence settled between them, heavy with words unsaid.
“I’m afraid,” she whispered. “The world is changing, and I don’t know what’s real anymore.”
“I don’t either,” he said. “But I know this—I loved you long before I even understood what love was.”
Celestina’s eyes widened. “Then why—?”
“Because we are not free, Celestina,” he said, voice low. “You belong to a world I cannot touch. And soon, I may belong to no world at all.”
She reached for his hand.
And this time, he didn’t pull away.
They stood there, fingers interlaced, as the wind carried the scent of ylang-ylang through the air. It felt like a goodbye.
“Promise me one thing,” she said. “That you won’t forget me.”
“I could never.”
“And that you’ll write.”
Leonardo nodded. “I’ve written more letters than I can count. I just… never sent them.”
Celestina smiled faintly. “Then hide them. Somewhere no one will find. Maybe someday, someone will read them and know we existed. That we were real.”
He felt something sharp in his chest, like sorrow with wings.
“I’ll hide them where only you would think to look,” he said.
Then he pressed a kiss to her hand—nothing more.
It was all they had.
And all they could risk.
- Writer
