THE HOUSE WE KEPT

CHAPTER 8: THE STORM

LINA'S POV

The sky turned black at 3:47pm.

I know the exact time because I was watching the clock Dreo fixed. It was the only thing in the house that didn’t lie.

“Signal 3,” Dreo said from the window. He didn’t turn around. “Mayor’s office called Aling Teresing.”

I was wrapping the sunflower Mimi left. The chipped cup. The bent stem. “It’s going to flood the garden.”

“Probably.”

“Probably,” I repeated. My voice sounded thin. “That’s all you have to say?”

He finally looked at me. Rain was already hitting the glass. “What do you want me to say, Lina?”

My name.

He said my name.

I dropped the cloth. “Two days, Dreo. That’s what you said yesterday. Two days left. Then your job here is done.”

The wind hit the house. The red door rattled. The one we stopped nailing shut.

“I know,” he said.

“That’s it?” I stood up. My bandaged hands were still sore from sanding. “No ‘maybe I’ll stay’? No ‘don’t go’? Just ‘I know’?”

He walked to the kitchen. Filled the kettle. Like the house wasn’t about to be ripped open. “What do you want me to lie for?”

I followed him. “I want you to say something that isn’t wood and nails.”

The kettle screamed.

He poured water. Two mugs. Black coffee. No sugar. He never asked if I took sugar. He just remembered I drank it bitter.

He handed me one. Our fingers brushed. Neither of us pulled away fast.

“Drink,” he said.

I did. It burned.

Outside, the first branch hit the roof.

We both looked up.

“The bedroom,” he said. “The new floor. It’ll hold.”

“The ceiling won’t.”

He didn’t argue. Because it was true. We left the beam half-patched. Because we ran out of time. Because two days.

Another crack. Louder.

“s**t,” he said. First time he cursed in the house. “We have to move everything from that room. Now.”

We ran.

The room with light. The pink wall. The place we sat on the floor without talking.

Water was already coming in. Not dripping. Streaming. Down the wall, over the floorboard we just laid.

“No,” I said. It came out broken. “No, we just—”

“Help me,” Dreo cut in. He was already dragging the mattress. “Now isn’t the time.”

So we worked.

I carried buckets. He pried the wet boards. Rain was coming in faster than we could take it out. My hair was soaked. My shirt clung to me. His too.

“Here,” he said. He shoved a towel at me. “The corner. Press hard.”

I knelt. Pressed. Water ran through my fingers, cold.

He knelt beside me. Our shoulders touched.

“The sapling,” I said suddenly. “Outside. The mango.”

“It’ll drown or it won’t,” he said. He didn’t look at me. “We can’t do anything about it right now.”

“That’s cruel.”

“That’s fact.”

I stopped pressing. Looked at him. “Is that all I am to you? A fact? Two weeks. A contract. A house to fix?”

The lamp flickered. The power was going.

He stopped moving too.

Rain. Wind. The house groaning.

“Lina,” he said.

I waited.

He didn’t finish.

“Go ahead,” I whispered. “Say it. Whatever it is. The storm’s loud enough to bury it.”

He dragged a hand through his wet hair. Water on his face. I couldn’t tell if it was rain or something else.

“You want to know why I didn’t leave?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Because the porch was quiet,” he said. “And inside was quieter. And for twelve years, I didn’t have either.”

I blinked. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

The ceiling creaked.

We both froze.

Dust fell.

“Move,” he said. He grabbed my wrist. Pulled me back hard.

The beam gave way.

Wood. Water. Pink paint. It all came down where we were kneeling a second ago.

The room went silent except for the rain.

My heart was in my throat. “You—”

“Shh,” he said. He was breathing hard. His hand was still on my wrist. “You’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” I said back. Like I was trying to believe it.

He let go. Slow. Like he didn’t want to.

We sat back on our heels. Staring at the hole in the ceiling. At the ruin we just made again.

I started laughing.

It wasn’t a happy sound.

Dreo looked at me like I was crazy. “What?”

“We fixed it,” I said. “We sanded. We painted. We put in light. And the house just… ate it.”

He didn’t laugh. “Houses do that.”

“People too,” I said.

He went quiet.

The power died.

Dark.

Except for the gray storm light through the broken ceiling.

“Lamp,” he said. He stood. Stumbled to the kitchen. I heard him strike a match. Once. Twice. Three times.

His hands were shaking.

“Here,” I said. I took the match from him. Lit the wick myself. “I’ve got it.”

The flame caught. His face in the light. Wet. Tired. 34 but looked older tonight.

He sat down on the floor. Hard. Like his legs gave out.

I sat across from him. The lamp between us.

We didn’t talk for a long time.

The rain did.

Finally, he said, “Cebu.”

I looked up.

“My dad,” he said. “He died in this house. Right there.” He pointed at the hole. “Heart attack. I was 22. I came home from Manila. He was on the floor. Cold.”

My breath caught.

“I called an ambulance,” he kept going. Voice flat. “They said 20 minutes. He was dead in 5. I sat with him for 15. Holding his hand. It was still warm.”

Dreo.

I didn’t say his name. I wanted to. But my throat closed.

“I left the next day,” he said. “Didn’t go to the wake. Didn’t see my brother. Just… left. Because if I stayed, I’d have to admit I didn’t save him.”

The lamp hissed.

“That’s why you fix houses,” I said.

“That’s why I leave them,” he corrected.

I hugged my knees. “Mateo.”

His head snapped up.

“My fiancé,” I said. The word felt foreign. “We were supposed to marry last year. June. White dress. 200 guests. He didn’t show.”

Dreo didn’t speak.

“I waited,” I said. “40 minutes. In the church. Everyone staring. My mother crying. And I just… stood there. Because if I walked out, it was real.”

The wind howled.

“I came here to sell,” I said. “Because if I sold Lola’s house, it meant I could sell everything else too. The dress. The photos. The life I planned.”

Dreo’s jaw was tight. “Did it work?”

“No,” I said. “Because you were on the porch.”

He flinched.

“Because you fixed the door but left it an inch open,” I said. “Because you watered Mimi’s sunflower without me asking.”

“Lina—”

“Don’t,” I said. “Don’t ‘Lina’ me like you’re sorry.”

“I’m not,” he said. Fast. “I’m not sorry I stayed. I’m sorry I don’t know what happens after Friday.”

That was worse.

I looked down at my hands. The bandages were gray with water. “Two days.”

“Two days,” he said.

“Then what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Lie to me,” I said. “Just once. Tell me you’ll stay.”

He was quiet for so long I thought he wouldn’t answer.

“I can’t,” he said.

The lamp flickered again.

“Okay,” I said. My voice didn’t shake. Much. “Then we don’t talk about Friday.”

“Okay.”

“Then what do we talk about?”

He looked at the hole in the ceiling. At the rain coming in. “The roof.”

I laughed. Wet, ugly. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re still here.”

That shut me up.

We sat there until the water in the room was ankle-deep. Until our feet were numb.

“You’re cold,” he said.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

He stood up. Went to the kitchen. Came back with the blanket from the porch. The one he used every night.

He held it out.

I didn’t take it. “It’s yours.”

“It’s dry,” he said. “Take it.”

I did. It smelled like him. Sawdust and rain.

He sat back down. No blanket for him.

“Hey,” I said.

He looked up.

“Move closer.”

He did. Not touching. But close enough that I could feel his warmth.

The storm peaked at 1:13am.

We heard it before we saw it. A groan from the south wall.

Dreo was on his feet before I could breathe. “Back. Now.”

We scrambled to the kitchen. The safest part.

The crash was massive.

The south wall. The bedroom. Gone.

We stood in the kitchen doorway, watching rain pour into the house like it owned it.

The sunflower cup fell off the windowsill. Shattered.

“No,” I said.

Dreo didn’t say anything. He just walked to it. Knelt. Picked up the bent stem. Mud and all.

“It’s dead,” I said.

He cupped it in his hands. “Not yet.”

He brought it to the kitchen table. Set it in a dry mug. Poured a little water from his bottle.

“Why?” I asked. “It’s just a plant.”

“Because it was alive,” he said. “And someone gave it to you.”

Mimi.

I sat down. Hard. “I’m tired, Dreo.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to sell.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want you to go.”

He went still.

The storm was quieter now. Or maybe we were louder.

He looked at me. Really looked. “Lina.”

My name again.

“Say something else,” I whispered.

He reached across the table. Not for my hand. For the mug. He pushed it toward me. Coffee. Cold now.

“Drink,” he said.

I did.

He didn’t drink his. He just watched me.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because when you drink,” he said, “you don’t leave. Not for a minute.”

That broke me.

I put the mug down. “Stay on the porch tonight.”

“I always do.”

“Not outside,” I said. “Inside. The door’s open. Wide. You don’t have to sit by the frame.”

He stared at me.

The house creaked. Settling. Or giving up.

He stood up. Walked to the door.

My heart dropped.

He didn’t leave.

He closed it.

All the way.

Click.

Then he turned. Walked back. Sat on the floor. Not by the door. By me.

No blanket between us this time.

We didn’t talk anymore.

The storm did. Until 4am.

And when it finally eased, we were both asleep. Back to back. On the kitchen floor.

Alive.

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*[End Chapter 8