Through the weather

Chapter 4 " Daily life"

The night was silent. Only the soft rustling of dried coconut and abaca leaves could be heard—leaves my grandma and I were carefully weaving together under the dim glow of our lamp.

"Can I just do what you’re doing, Grandma?" Maya asked beside me, her voice small but sincere.

"Watch how you handle those leaves," Grandma replied, not looking up. "They're not just dried leaves. They are tradition—woven by time, passed through the hands of our ancestors, and entrusted to those who come after."

"But they’re just normal leaves, Grandma. There’s nothing special about them," Maya said, lifting a strand of coconut fiber and inspecting it.

"She means you should concentrate," I told her, eyes still focused on my own weaving.

Mayu. Maya. In every fold of a leaf, a story from Pandayupan is tucked away. In every fiber, a secret. In every mat—a memory.

Long ago, a promise was made by hand and heart. A weaver known as Malaya began something no one else had dared: a hundred mats, not for sale, but to give away—to those who had nothing, to the forgotten, to the ones time had abandoned.

She worked under the sun’s heat, bore the sting of calluses, and braved the cold nights. Each drop of sweat, every ache in her body—she offered them all. Her only dream: to share kindness.

One hundred mats. Each one, a symbol of hope.

But one night, as she neared her ninety-nine mat, tragedy struck. The rear of her woven house caught fire—its walls made of layered leaves, its roof of cogon grass, all sewn together by hope and patience.

The flames spread quickly. People screamed. Some ran to help, others watched, frozen.

But Malaya didn’t stop.

Even as the fire roared, she finished weaving the mat under her hands. She never let go of her dream. She didn’t retreat. Not when they called her crazy, not when the fire crept closer.

Until the blaze consumed everything, and Malaya became ashes among the memories.

"Poor Malaya," Maya murmured as she gently straightened the leaves we'd gathered for weaving. "Everything burned down, but she never gave up on helping others."

Now here we are—descendants of Pandayupan. Carrying her memory. Not to mourn, but to continue. We are not merely making mats. We are weaving her dream.

And in every fold, every stitch of hope—we fulfill her promise.

Until all one hundred mats are complete.

Years passed, and the tradition began to fade. Only remnants survived—held tightly by a few, kept alive in secret, in shadows.

Maya and I walked along the path, carrying several finished mats over our shoulders. The path home was dusty, but familiar. As we moved forward, I found myself remembering a strange moment I still wasn’t sure was real.

The stars above looked frozen in the sky, like raindrops suspended in midair, waiting for the right time to fall. The thick clouds twisted above us, heavy and dark, as if hiding something within them.

And then, in a blink—

The rain came.

Thousands of droplets spilled from the sky in a burst, pounding the ground in an instant. But just as quickly as it arrived, it disappeared. One second of rain. One breath. One impossible moment.

Did that really happen? Or was it just the wind playing tricks on me?

I wished it would happen again. So the people could remember. So the earth could feel the old songs again. So the memories would return with each falling drop.

"Sis… hey, sis," Maya’s voice pulled me back. I blinked, realizing I had been standing still, staring at the sky.

"You've been out of it since we got here," she said, adjusting the mats on her back.

I offered her a quiet smile. "Just… thinking."

But what was I really thinking about?

Something deeper than just a memory. Something beneath the rain, the stars, the wind.

JULVEN's POV.

Rushing into the building, I carried two heavy boxes stacked on top of each other, nearly blocking my view of what was in front of me.

The pathway was crowded with people moving in all directions, making it difficult to figure out how I’d get through.

“Excuse me… please let me pass. Thank you,” I kept saying as I tried to navigate the crowd.

Despite the struggle, I finally made it through and let out a deep sigh of relief. My arms were numb from carrying the boxes. I moved to the side briefly and stretched my back and arms.

“This is the last one, finally,” I said while leaning back—only to see the elevator ahead of me just about to close.

I quickly lifted the boxes again, keeping my eyes fixed on the elevator. I practically ran just to make it.

“Wait!” I called out, pushing the elevator door open just as it was about to shut.

“Sorry,” I said to the people inside, clearly disturbed by my sudden entrance. Still carrying the boxes despite the strain, I tried to endure it. Suddenly, my phone started ringing inside my pocket.

Even though both hands were occupied, I tried to reach for my phone with one hand. It was deep in my pants pocket, and I struggled to grab it. Out of desperation, I pulled it out quickly—unfortunately, the phone slipped from my hand and fell to the elevator floor.

I let out another sigh. I couldn’t pick it up; there was no space to set down the boxes in the cramped elevator.

Then I noticed a woman beside me. She looked at me, then picked up the phone and gently placed it on top of the boxes I was holding. The elevator door opened. She stepped out first, followed by the rest of the passengers—until I was the only one left inside.

Her face looked familiar. Im sure I’d seen her somewhere before. I tried to glance back at her, but the elevator doors had already closed.

Her face stayed in my mind.

My phone rang again from atop the box. I set the boxes down on the floor and reached for the phone, having momentarily forgotten it was up there. I answered the call.

“Hello, Jul, where are you? We’ve been waiting for those boxes. Hurry up, we need them here now,” said the person on the line.

I sighed and slumped onto a bench nearby. My arms were sore and exhausted.

“That’s how it is when you’re working,” my coworker said, chuckling.

“Yeah,” I replied. “When you’re in a low position, people look down on you—and you still get scolded when you’re late. Why don’t they try carrying all those boxes from the ground floor to the twentieth with no rest? Let’s see how they do.”

“You got scolded again, huh?” he said, laughing.

I just answered with another deep sigh.