Chapter 7: The Door Left Open
923 Words
LINA'S POV
The house was almost a house now.
Not a ruin. Not a project.
Walls that didn’t breathe cold. A roof that didn’t cry when it rained.
A red door that didn’t slam. It closed. Soft.
Two weeks was almost over.
And I still hadn’t said his name when I was alone.
---
He didn’t leave the porch that night.
I didn’t close the door.
In the morning, it was still open an inch.
He saw it.
He didn’t mention it.
But he took the coffee.
---
We started on the bedroom after that.
It was the smallest room. The one with the worst water damage.
The floor was soft in one corner. The ceiling had a brown stain shaped like a hand.
“Don’t sleep here,” he said.
“I’m not,” I said.
“Good.”
We ripped the floor out. Together.
He pried. I carried. My bandaged hands hurt. He didn’t say anything. He just handed me the lighter pieces.
When we found the rot, he stopped.
“Termites,” he said. “Old ones. Dead now.”
“Is it bad?”
“It was,” he said. “Not anymore.”
He looked at me when he said it.
I looked at the floor.
---
Aling Teresing didn’t come that day.
Mimi did.
She didn’t bring drawings. She brought a plant.
A small one. In a chipped cup.
“Sunflower,” she said. “Para hindi laging black.”
She put it on the windowsill.
It was ugly. Small. Bent.
But it was alive.
Dreo watered it without being told.
I didn’t tell him to.
---
That afternoon, the power came back.
The electrician from town. Old. Quiet.
He didn’t ask questions. He just worked.
When the light clicked on, the room looked different.
Smaller. Warmer. Less like a grave.
“Tapos na,” the man said. “Bayad sa katapusan.”
“Thank you,” Dreo said.
When the man left, Dreo stood in the middle of the room.
Looking at the light.
Like he didn’t trust it.
“Why do you look like that?” I asked.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re waiting for it to go out.”
He didn’t answer.
He just turned the light off. Then on. Then off.
Then left it on.
---
We worked late.
The new floorboards. Sanding.
Sawdust in my hair. In his.
My back hurt. My hands hurt.
But I didn’t stop.
“Rest,” he said.
“I don’t want to.”
“Why?”
“Because when I stop, I think.”
He nodded.
He didn’t tell me to stop again.
---
At 8PM, we sat on the floor.
No food. We were too tired.
Just water. From the same bottle.
He passed it to me.
Our fingers touched.
Neither of us pulled away fast.
“You’re good at this,” he said.
“At what?”
“Staying.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
So I said nothing.
---
Later, I went to the kitchen.
The counter was done. Solid.
I ran my hand over it.
No wobble. No rot.
He was behind me.
I didn’t hear him come in.
“You did good,” he said.
“We did,” I said.
He didn’t correct me.
---
That night, I didn’t leave the door open.
I closed it. All the way.
Clicked the lock.
I lay on the floor.
Staring at the ceiling.
Listening.
No footsteps on the porch.
No blanket moving.
He was gone.
My chest did the dropping thing again.
Like a step I missed.
---
I slept anyway.
---
In the morning, he was in the yard.
Digging. Again.
Not the mango tree.
A new hole. By the window.
I went out.
“What are you doing?”
“Planting,” he said.
He held up a small sapling.
Mango.
“From Aling,” he said. “She said it’s time.”
He put it in the ground.
Patted the soil.
Careful.
Like he was burying something.
Or planting something.
---
He stood up.
Looked at me.
“You should name it,” he said.
“No,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because if I name it, I’ll be sad if it dies.”
He nodded.
“Then don’t.”
We stood there.
The sun was up.
The house was behind us.
The sapling was between us.
---
“Two days,” he said.
“What?”
“Two days left. Then my job here is done.”
The words hit like cold water.
“I know,” I said.
He picked up his tools.
Went back to work.
I went inside.
Looked at the sunflower in the cup.
It had opened a little more.
---
That night, I left the door open again.
Not an inch.
Wide.
I didn’t wait on the porch.
I lay on the floor.
Lamp off.
I listened.
Footsteps.
The porch creaked.
He stopped.
He didn’t come in.
But he didn’t leave either.
He sat down.
I could hear the blanket.
All night.
---
In the morning, the door was still open.
And he was still there.
Asleep.
Back against the doorframe.
Blanket over his knees.
I didn’t wake him.
I made coffee.
Two mugs.
I set one beside him.
He opened his eyes.
Didn’t say thank you.
Just drank it.
---
“One day,” he said.
“I know.”
That was it.
That was the thing we didn’t say.
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_End Chapter 7_
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