The Secret Beneath Her Name

Chapter 15: Amihan

Dingras Bus Terminal. Ilocos Norte. May 1, 2026. 6:17 AM.

EXT. DINGRAS BUS TERMINAL - DAWN

The rain isn’t rain yet. It’s the kind that hangs in the air before a decision. Amihan wind comes down from the mountains and makes the galvanized roof of the terminal hum. One note. Low. Like a warning.

AMIHAN, 19, mops in a square. Push, pull, wring. Push, pull, wring. The water in the bucket started clear at 5:00 AM. Now it’s the color of the Cagayan when the dams open without warning. Brown. Thick. She can see her reflection if she stops moving, but she doesn’t.

Her name tag is plastic, sun-faded. AMIHAN - JANITOR. No surname. Nanang said she didn’t need one. “The wind doesn’t have a last name, anak. It just comes and goes.”

The terminal is supposed to open at 6:30. But the OLD MAN on Bench 3 has been there since Amihan arrived at 4:00 AM. Maybe earlier. He didn’t get off a bus. He was just there, sitting under the one fluorescent light that works. Black umbrella closed beside him. Barong sleeves too long for his wrists. Hands that shake like he’s cold, but it’s May in Ilocos. No one is cold in May.

He’s watching her. Not her face. Her neck.

Amihan’s hand goes to it without thinking. Habit. She’s done it since she was a kid. Nanang caught her once and slapped her hand away. “Wag mong kakamutin. Mamamaga.” But it isn’t itchy. It’s just… there.

A birthmark. Raised. Shaped like a bird with its wings open. Swan, the old midwife in the barangay said before she died of diabetes. “Bihira yan. Parang may sinelyo ka ng langit.” Nanang didn’t like that. “Walang selyo ang anak ko. Anak ko lang siya.”

OLD MAN

Anak.

His voice is dry. Like paper left in the sun.

Amihan stops mopping. The roosters from the radio behind the ticket counter are crowing a 5:00 AM program. It’s 6:17.

AMIHAN

Manong, terminal’s closed pa.

He doesn’t look at her eyes. He looks at the birthmark. Then higher. At her chin.

OLD MAN

You have his eyes.

She almost laughs. She does laugh, but it’s quiet. The kind of laugh you use when you’re tired and someone says something that would be funny if you weren’t tired.

AMIHAN

Manong, I have my Nanang’s eyes. Everyone says. Singkit, tapos maitim. Like hers.

The old man opens his umbrella. It’s 6:17 AM. It’s not raining. The umbrella is black, cloth kind, with a wooden handle worn smooth. Inside the umbrella, taped to the ribs, is a PHOTO.

The photo is old. The edges are soft. A baby. Girl. Maybe six months. Wrapped in a malong with blue flowers. Around the baby’s neck: a JADE PENDANT on a red string. Oval. Dark green. Behind the baby: a TREE. Black trunk. No leaves. But carved into the trunk are shapes. Birds.

AMIHAN (CONT’D)

That’s…

OLD MAN

October 12, 2008. San Fernando. 3:03 AM.

The date is a stone in her stomach.

October 12 is her birthday. Nanang told her. “October 13 kita napulot, anak. Sa gilid ng ilog. Pagkatapos ng habagat. 2008. Pero October 12 ka siguro pinanganak. Kaya yun ang birthday mo.”

Napulot. Found. Not born. Found.

AMIHAN

That’s not me.

OLD MAN

No. You’re 19. She’d be 28.

He closes the umbrella. The photo disappears.

OLD MAN (CONT’D)

But the tree remembers.

The word tree makes her chin hurt. Not pain. Pressure. Like someone pressed a thumb there. Hard.

INT. TERMINAL COMFORT ROOM - 6:24 AM

The comfort room smells like chlorine and sampaguita soap from the dispenser that’s been empty since March. Amihan turns the faucet. Water sputters, then runs. Cold. She cups it and throws it at her face. Twice. Three times.

The mirror above the sink is cracked from the top left to the bottom right. It cuts her reflection in half. Cuts the birthmark in half. One wing on each side.

She pulls her collar down. The mark is there. Same as always. Swan. Wings spread. Raised, like scar tissue. But she’s never been burned. Nanang would have told her. Nanang tells her everything. Except who left her by the river. “Wag mo nang itanong, anak. Ako ang nanay mo. Tapos.”

Her bag is under the sink. Canvas. Marikina made, but fake. She unzips it. Notebook. Baon wrapped in dahon ng saging. And at the bottom, wrapped in a handkerchief:

JADE PENDANT.

Nanang gave it to her when she turned 7. “Galing sa basket mo,” Nanang said. “Para hindi mo makalimutan na may nagmamahal sa’yo bago ako.”

Amihan holds it up to the fluorescent light. The jade is dark. Almost black. The red string is frayed but strong. She’s never taken it off except to bathe.

Today, she sees something inside. A bubble. No. Not a bubble. A shape. Metal. Tiny.

A KEY.

Skeleton key. The kind that opens old baul. The kind in Nanang’s stories about the Monteverde house in Manila. The kind in her dreams.

Her chin throbs. Once. Sharp. Like a match held to skin.

She touches it. No blood. No blister. But the memory of pain is there.

From outside, through the thin plywood door:

OLD MAN (O.S.)

3:03, anak. They come at 3:03.

Amihan’s fingers open. The pendant falls. Hits the tile. Doesn’t break. Jade doesn’t break.

The lights FLICKER. Once. Twice.

The clock on her phone says 6:25 AM.

EXT. DINGRAS BUS TERMINAL - CONTINUOUS

The old man is gone. Bench 3 is empty. The seat is wet. Not from rain. The ground under the bench is dry. Only the wood is wet. Like something sat there and sweated. Or cried.

On the bench: A MANILA ENVELOPE. Thick. The kind that holds documents. On the front, written in black Pentel pen, no curls, no style:

MARIA LIWAYWAY MONTEVERDE

Amihan knows that name. Everyone in Ilocos knows that name.

Monteverde. The family that owns SM, BDO, half of Manila. The family that lost a daughter in 2008. Habagat flood in Pampanga. Six years old. Body never found.

For 18 years, the reward poster was on the sari-sari store wall. MISSING: MARIA LIWAYWAY MONTEVERDE. 6 YRS OLD. BIRTHMARK: SWAN ON NECK. LAST SEEN: ST. MARTHA’S HOME FOR CHILDREN, SAN FERNANDO. REWARD: 50 MILLION PESOS.

Nanang tore it down when Amihan was 10. “Hindi ikaw yan,” Nanang said. “Ikaw si Amihan. Anak kita.”

Amihan kicks the envelope. It slides under the bench.

AMIHAN

(whispers)

I’m not her.

The wind changes. It was amihan five minutes ago. Northeast. Cold. Dry. Now it’s warm. Wet. From the west. Habagat wind in May. That doesn’t happen. Habagat is June to October.

But it’s here.

It carries smells: kerosene from a gasera lamp. Smoke from wood that isn’t wood. Milk gone sour.

From the direction of the river, 200 meters east, a DOG BARKS. Once. Twice. Three times. Then silence.

Amihan counts without wanting to. One. Two. Three.

3:03.

A BUS pulls into the terminal. Early. First trip is supposed to be 6:30. This one is 6:28.

The plate number is white and red: NYX 303.

The BUS DRIVER leans out. Young. Maybe 25. Uniform too big.

BUS DRIVER

Dingras to Cubao. Last trip before the storm.

Amihan looks at her mop. Wood handle, gray head. At the envelope. At her rubber slippers, one strap broken and tied with alambre.

Nanang is 61. Rayuma. Sells empanada 6 AM to 6 PM in the market. If Amihan was that Monteverde girl… Nanang could stop. Nanang could rest. Nanang could have a house with tiles, not nipa.

But Nanang found her. Named her. Fed her. Loved her.

Names aren’t things you find in envelopes.

Her chin burns.

She picks up the envelope. It’s heavy. Paper, but heavy.

INT. MOVING BUS - 7:01 AM

The bus is half empty. Farmers going to Manila. One student with a UP jacket. Amihan sits in the second to the last row, by the window. The envelope is on her lap. Unopened.

Across the aisle: A GIRL. Six. White dress. No shoes. Feet dirty. Asleep on her MOTHER’s lap.

The MOTHER fans the girl with a pamaypay made of anahaw.

MOTHER

Init. Summer’s early. El Niño daw.

Amihan nods. Doesn’t speak. She looks out the window.

The road to Manila is rice fields, then hills, then the start of NLEX. But right there, by Km 12, is a TREE.

Black. No leaves. Tall. Alone in a field of palay.

Carved into the trunk: BIRDS. Swans. Seven of them. One at the bottom is fresh. The cuts are white against the black bark. Sap is running.

That tree is in Pampanga. Amihan saw it on TV. KMJS special: “The Haunted Tree of St. Martha’s.” It’s 150 kilometers south.

It cannot be here.

The bus hits a pothole.

The jade pendant slips out of Amihan’s pocket. Falls. Lands in the aisle.

The GIRL’s eyes OPEN. Not sleepy. Not kid. Awake. Old.

She looks at the pendant. Then at Amihan. Then at Amihan’s chin.

GIRL

(whispers, so only Amihan hears)

You’re late, angel.

The word angel makes Amihan’s blood go cold.

The MOTHER keeps fanning. Keeps looking out the window. Doesn’t hear.

AMIHAN

(whispers)

Who are you?

The girl smiles. Her teeth are small, but there are too many. Too white. Like the old man’s teeth.

GIRL

I’m you. From 2037.

On the radio, the driver changes the station. News.

RADIO

“…flash flood warning for Cagayan River basin. PAGASA advises residents in low-lying areas…”

The GIRL closes her eyes. Asleep again. Instant. Like a switch.

Amihan picks up the pendant. The jade is WARM. The skeleton key inside is GLOWING. Faint. Like a alitaptap.

She opens the envelope.

First page: BIRTH CERTIFICATE.

Republic of the Philippines

Certificate of Live Birth

Name: MARIA LIWAYWAY MONTEVERDE

Date of Birth: October 12, 2008

Place of Birth: St. Martha’s Home for Children, San Fernando, Pampanga

Mother: [BLANK]

Father: [BLANK]

Informant: LILIA A. REVENAR

Stapled to it: PHOTO.

Her. Six. White dress. Standing in front of a door. Room 6. On her chin: A BURN. Fresh. Swan-shaped.

Second page: NOTE. Handwritten. Ballpen. Hurried.

“You gave it. Now take it back. -M”

M.

Mireille. Maria. Mateo. Mother. Monteverde.

The GIRL is awake again. She doesn’t sit up. She just speaks.

GIRL

He’s coming. Don Severino. He wants the name back.

AMIHAN

What name?

GIRL

The one you traded. To save me.

Flash. Not hers. But hers. Room 6. 2037. A woman, 29, scar on chin, holding a key. A man in a black suit. “Maria Liwayway Monteverde,” the woman says. The tree outside drinks the name. The woman becomes 19 again, in Dingras, no memory.

Amihan grips the seat. The bus is cold now. The habagat is here.

AMIHAN

I’m not her. I’m Amihan.

The girl reaches out. Touches Amihan’s chin. Right where the burn is in the photo. Where the birthmark is now.

GIRL

Then run.

The bus DRIVER yells from the front:

BUS DRIVER

Bridge is out! Lahar from last year! We have to stop!

The bus STOPS. Middle of nowhere. Rice fields on both sides. The black tree 100 meters away.

The door opens.

Rain comes in.

No. Not rain.

DON SEVERINO.

Black suit. Not wet. Not dry. Not old. Not young. His shoes are clean. The flood is knee-high outside, but his shoes are clean.

He doesn’t look at the passengers. They don’t look at him. Like he’s not there.

He looks at Amihan.

DON SEVERINO

You owe me a name, anak.

The passengers are frozen. The mother with the pamaypay. The student with the UP jacket. All still. Like photos.

Only Amihan, the girl, and Don Severino move.

AMIHAN

I don’t owe you anything.

DON SEVERINO

You gave me Maria. Now the tree is hungry. It wants Amihan.

The jade pendant in Amihan’s hand CRACKS. Not the jade. The key inside. It grows. Pushes out. Becomes a full SKELETON KEY. Iron. Cold. Real.

AMIHAN

One life for the house. One name for the tree.

Don Severino STOPS walking.

AMIHAN (CONT’D)

That was the bargain. You said it. 1972. 2008. 2037.

She stands. The bus is waist-deep in water now. But the water doesn’t touch her.

AMIHAN (CONT’D)

The house is gone. St. Martha’s burned. Bahay Revenar is a park.

She throws the key. Out the door. Into the habagat flood.

AMIHAN (CONT’D)

No house. No bargain.

The flood takes the key.

Outside, the BLACK TREE SHUDDERS. A sound like wood breaking.

One SWAN carving FALLS OFF the trunk. Hits the water. Floats away.

Six left.

DON SEVERINO

You don’t know what you’ve done.

AMIHAN

I know. I broke it.

The GIRL stands. Takes Amihan’s hand. Her hand is cold. Not kid cold. Dead cold.

GIRL

No. You started it.

The water reaches the bus windows.

Don Severino is gone. Not walked away. Gone. Like a light turned off.

The GIRL is gone. Like she was never there.

The passengers move again. Screaming. Pushing.

BUS DRIVER

Out! Out! Lumikas!

Amihan doesn’t scream. She looks at the birth certificate.

The ink is running. MARIA LIWAYWAY MONTEVERDE is bleeding, letter by letter, becoming AMIHAN.

No surname. Just Amihan.

She grabs it. Breaks the emergency window with her elbow. Water pours in.

She swims.

The habagat takes the bus. Takes the road. Takes the bridge.