The road to Sagada was a winding stretch of dirt and fog. Jessica leaned against the van window, watching the mountains rise and vanish into the mist, the air thinning with every turn. Ginny sat beside her, camera bag wedged between her knees, humming absently to a song only she knew.
When they finally reached the community, the silence felt different. It wasn’t the absence of noise but the presence of struggle. The children were already waiting, barefoot, their uniforms worn thin, notebooks folded and reused until the paper barely held together.
Jessica stepped out of the van, greeted by a boy no older than ten. He had mud on his legs and a pencil tucked behind his ear.“Ma’am, we walk from down there,” he said, pointing to the valley below, “one hour every day.”
“One hour?” Ginny asked
