Chapter Three – What the House Remembers
733 Words
Amelia woke to the sound of rain on galvanized iron and her grandmother humming in the kitchen.
The house remembered her.
That was the first thought that hurt.
The second was the smell of garlic and onions sautéing in oil—gising-gising, probably, or maybe lugaw if Lola Cora thought she looked too thin. The old wooden floor creaked the same way it always had, complaining under every step, announcing her presence like a scolding auntie.
“You’re awake,” Lola Cora said without turning around. “Good. You look like someone who hasn’t eaten properly in months.”
Amelia smiled weakly. “Good morning to you too, La.”
Her grandmother finally faced her, eyes sharp and knowing. “You saw him.”
Amelia froze.
“I—”
“Don’t lie. The house doesn’t like liars this early.” Lola Cora handed her a bowl anyway. “Eat.”
Amelia ate because arguing with her grandmother was a losing game she hadn’t missed. The rice was warm, the ginger biting just enough to sting. Her chest tightened without warning.
“I didn’t know he still lived here,” Amelia said quietly.
“Where else would he go?” Lola Cora replied. “Some people stay where the pain makes sense.”
That landed too close.
Later that morning, Amelia volunteered to go to the market just to escape the walls closing in. She barely made it past the gate before Lola Cora called after her.
“Oh—and Inigo will take you.”
Amelia turned slowly. “What?”
“He’s fixing the back fence. I already told him.”
“You told him?”
“Yes. He said yes.” Lola Cora smiled, serene and victorious. “Bring calamansi.”
By the time Inigo arrived on his motorcycle, helmet under his arm, Amelia’s palms were slick with nerves.
“You don’t have to—” she started.
“Your lola already promised me lunch,” he said. “I’m not brave enough to disappoint her.”
That earned a breath of a laugh from her before she could stop it.
The ride was quiet, the kind of silence that pressed in on her ears. She held onto the back of the seat, not him. When the road dipped, her body lurched forward instinctively.
For half a second, her hands hovered near his waist.
Inigo stiffened.
She pulled back immediately, heart racing, shame flushing hot up her neck.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted.
“It’s fine,” he said too quickly.
But his shoulders never relaxed.
At the market, the town unfolded without mercy. Vendors stared too long. Whispers traveled faster than footsteps.
“Is that her?”
“She came back alone?”
Amelia felt it building—the tightness, the buzzing under her skin. Her breath shortened as if the air itself had turned thick.
A woman she recognized from church smiled politely. “You’re Amelia, right? We saw the news. Such a shame.”
The word cracked something open.
Her vision blurred. The market noise sharpened into knives. She couldn’t tell if she was standing or sinking.
“Amelia,” Inigo said, low and urgent.
She shook her head, backing away. “I can’t—I need—”
Her chest seized.
Inigo moved closer, close enough that she could smell rain and metal and something heartbreakingly steady.
“Look at me,” he said.
She didn’t.
He lifted his hand—hesitated inches from her arm.
Didn’t touch.
“I’m here,” he said anyway. “Just breathe.”
She followed his voice like a rope thrown into dark water.
When the panic finally loosened its grip, she realized they were standing far too close. His hand still hovered, respectful, restrained.
“You’re shaking,” he said.
“So are you,” she replied.
That surprised him.
On the ride home, she finally asked the question she’d been circling.
“Your fiancée,” she said softly. “What happened?”
The motorcycle slowed.
“She drowned,” Inigo said. “During a storm. I was there.”
Amelia’s breath caught.
“I let go.”
The words stayed between them, heavier than the rain.
Neither of them spoke again.
But when he dropped her off, his hand brushed hers by accident.
Both of them felt it.
Neither of them moved.
End of Chapter Three
- Writer
