The Light Between Tides

The jeepney rattled to a stop with a hiss of brakes and the clatter of tin signage swinging overhead. Isla Aldave stepped off with her satchel pressed against her hip, the scent of salt and rust already curling into her scarf. The air in Bahawen hadn't changed; it still smelled like wet stone, dried fish, and memory. She adjusted her wide-brimmed hat as the driver took off again, leaving her alone at the side of the coastal road. Bahawen stretched before her: a quiet town with cracked pavements, houses still painted in fading pastels, and the ever-present lull of waves brushing against the cliffs. The old parola stood in the distance like a sentinel, its frame silhouetted against a cloudy sky. That was her destination. That, and the chapel beside it, is home to a mural long forgotten by most but still etched into her mind like an unfinished sentence. She hadn't meant to return, not after the fallout in Manila, not after the gallery incident, not after Anya. But when the heritage commission offered her a discreet restoration project far from the noise of the city, she'd said yes without asking too many questions. She needed the silence. And silence, Bahawen had in abundance. Isla passed a familiar sari-sari store, where an elderly woman squinted at her before offering a hesitant nod. No names were exchanged. The town remembered her, but it wasn’t sure yet if it forgave her. She walked slower than she used to. Every step brought back a fragment, the crackle of dried leaves outside the old schoolhouse, the hum of tricycles echoing along empty roads, the scent of mango trees blooming by the plaza. Ghosts of a childhood she had painted over in pursuit of something bigger. She wore an oversized linen blouse the color of bleached coral, tucked loosely into charcoal trousers rolled at the ankles. Her boots, worn and salt-stained, bore the memory of years spent chasing murals through ruined halls and half-forgotten churches. A faded blue scarf hung from her neck, frayed at the edges—her mother’s, once vibrant, now softened by time. Her long, dark hair was braided loosely down her back, with a few stray strands catching the breeze. Her eyes, deep and dark like wet stone, held the weight of something she had not yet named. The winding coastal path to the parola was uneven now, overgrown with tangles of grass and seaweed. Driftwood lay scattered like bones. She remembered running barefoot here once, racing tides and catching crabs in the tide pools with her cousins. Now, her boots pressed softly against the earth, every step quieter than the last. As she reached the path leading to the chapel, seagulls scattered from the rocks. She paused, staring up at the structure’s weather-worn doors. The mural waited within, buried under decades of repainting, humidity, and time. She could almost hear the walls breathing, as if they, too, had been waiting for her return. She took a breath, then pushed the doors open. Dust swirled. Light slanted through the cracked windows, illuminating a wall of colorless flakes and faint outlines. The air inside was thick with stillness, as if sound dared not linger here. She approached the mural slowly, fingertips itching. The wall stretched tall, once vibrant, now muted by grime and the salt of the sea. At first glance, it seemed like a typical colonial-style depiction: vague saintly figures, halos dulled, waves curling beneath their feet. But as Isla stepped closer, her trained eye caught inconsistencies: the curvature of a jaw that was too human, not divine; a hand reaching not in prayer, but in touch. She leaned in, breath caught in her throat. Her hand hovered over the most faded section near the center, where color should have lived, but was now silent. She imagined what it looked like before the years took it: the way the sea shimmered in indigo and violet, the way the figures leaned toward each other, almost touching, but not quite, longing captured in stillness. She opened her satchel and pulled out a soft brush, the one her mother had used. She ran it gently across a faded section of the wall. A single flake of paint lifted, drifting to the ground like ash. A memory came uninvited. Her mother was sitting behind her as she painted for the first time on the bamboo wall of their old kitchen. "Listen," her mother had said, touching Isla’s temple with pigment-stained fingers. "Paint what you feel, not what they want to see." She hadn’t heard her mother’s voice in years. Not like that. Not alive and whole. She blinked fast. The dust, she told herself. She took another breath and stepped back to take in the wall again. It was waiting. Whatever story had been painted over, it wasn’t gone. Not really. Just buried. Her voice barely rose above a whisper. “Let’s see what they tried to hide.” Outside, a gust of wind whistled across the cliff’s edge, carrying with it a single word whispered through Isla’s memory: lihim. A secret. A wound. A beginning.