Devotion After Dark

When we were kids, our grandmother often told us stories before bedtime. They were never the usual fairy tales with pretty princesses, brave princes, and happily-ever-afters. When Solenne was five years old, her grandmother used to tell her that every fairy tale had an unusual event. She had her own versions of those stories—ones filled with forgotten houses, strange forests, mysterious strangers, and monsters that waited patiently in the dark. Not always the kind with sharp teeth or claws. Sometimes, the monster wore a handsome face. Sometimes it lived inside an old house at the edge of the forest, waiting for someone curious enough to open its door. And sometimes, her grandmother would whisper, the monster wasn't really a monster at all—it was simply something that had forgotten how to be human. Those stories had always been Solenne's favorite. She would lie beneath the thin white blanket in her grandmother's old provincial bedroom, her tiny feet disappearing beneath the sheets while the electric fan turned lazily above her. The room smelled of lavender powder, old wooden furniture, and the faint sweetness of the sampaguita garland her grandmother kept near the window. Outside, crickets sang into the darkness, and the occasional sound of a tricycle passing down the road would fade into the distance. Her grandmother would sit beside her bed beneath the yellow glow of the old lamp, one hand resting over little Solenne’s blanket, her voice becoming softer whenever she reached the frightening parts, while little Solenne pulled the blanket up to her chin and listened. “And what happens if you meet the monster?” A five-year-old Solenne had once asked. Her grandmother had smiled. Not the wide, teasing smile she usually gave when little Solenne said something silly, but a small, knowing one that made the corners of her eyes crinkle. She reached over and gently pulled the blanket higher, tucking it beneath little Solenne’s chin. The room was warm, but little Solenne had insisted on being wrapped like a burrito because, according to her, monsters could crawl underneath blankets if there were gaps. The old electric fan hummed lazily in the corner. Outside the window, the night was alive with crickets. Their chirping rose and fell beneath the occasional rustle of leaves, while the yellow light from the bedside lamp cast soft shadows across the walls. Solenne stared up at her grandmother. “That depends.” Her grandmother replied. The five-year-old blinked. “On what?” Her grandmother leaned back against the headboard, folding her hands neatly over her lap. For a moment, she looked toward the window as though the answer might be waiting somewhere beyond the curtains. Then she looked back at little Solenne. “On whether you run.” The little girl just frowned at her grandma, not satisfied with the answer. Her little eyebrows pulled together as she considered this very seriously. “But, that’s not how fairy tales work, Lola.” Her grandmother laughed softly. It was a quiet, affectionate laugh, the kind that made little Solenne feel as though she had said something terribly clever without actually knowing why. “Perhaps you’ve been listening to the wrong fairy tales, my dear apo.”  Twenty years later, Solenne remembered that conversation for no particular reason. Perhaps it was the long drive, or it was the way the afternoon light slipped across the car window, turning the glass into a moving mirror. Or perhaps it was simple because she had nothing else to think about. She sat in the back seat with her forehead resting lightly against the cool window, watching Manila slowly disappear behind them. The city had been familiar only moments ago. Now it was becoming a blur. Concrete buildings gave way to rows of houses packed closely together. Storefronts and billboards appeared between traffic lights, then vanished behind them. The Jeepneys rattled alongside the car, their painted metal bodies flashing briefly in the corner of her vision before falling behind. Motorcycles squeezed through narrow spaces between vehicles. Pedestrians waited beneath umbrellas at the roadside, their faces disappearing almost as quickly as they appeared. Solenne watched all of it without really seeing it. Her reflection followed her in the glass. Twenty-two. Freshly graduated. The words still felt strange whenever Solenne thought about them, as if they belonged to someone else. Twenty-two was supposed to feel exciting. It was supposed to be the age when everything finally began to fall into place—the age of new opportunities, first jobs, independence, and all the possibilities people kept talking about whenever they congratulated her on graduating. Everyone seemed to have a different version of what came next: A job. A career. A new city. Perhaps further studies. Perhaps something bigger than anything she had imagined while sitting in a classroom four years ago. According to anyone she knew, supposedly standing at the beginning of the best years of her life. Solenne wanted to believe them, she really did. Yet whenever she heard those words, something heavy seemed to settle quietly in her chest. Not exactly sadness nor fear. Just pure exhaustion. It was difficult to explain how someone could finally reach the finish line she had spent years running toward and still felt as though she needed to sit down before taking another step. She had graduated. She had smiled for the photographs, accepted her diploma, listened to congratulations, thanked everyone who told her how proud they were. And now, somehow, she was expected to know where to go next. Solenne looked out the window again. The thought should have made her excited. Instead, she quietly wished she could close her eyes and sleep for a very, very long time. She could still remember when her parents, for once, seemed to understand without asking her to explain. They had noticed it in the little things—the way Solenne would stare at her laptop without opening another job posting, the unfinished cup of coffee growing cold beside her, the résumés she had printed but never sent, and the way she had started answering questions about her future with a tired smile instead of an actual answer. One evening, her father had looked over at her from across the dining table. “You don't have to rush.” Solenne had looked up from her plate. “What?” Her father released a heavy sigh like it was a hard decision. “Your mother and I talked about it.” Her mother beside her father nodded. “You've just graduated. You worked hard for four years.” Solenne lowered her eyes. There was no disappointment in either of their voices. No hidden reminder that she needed to start earning money immediately. Just concern. Her father leaned back in his chair and sighed again. “Maybe you should rest first.” The suggestion had caught her off guard. Rest. It sounded almost unfamiliar. Solenne had spent so long thinking that taking a break meant falling behind that she had forgotten there was nothing wrong with stopping for a while. Her mother reached for her glass of water. “You don't have to decide everything this month.” Solenne frowned, looked between them. “So... you're not worried?” “Of course we're worried,” her father said. Her mother gave him a look. He corrected himself. “We're parents. We're always worried.” That made Solenne laugh. Her mother smiled, happy to hear the genuine laugh from her daughter after days in a depressing state. “But you don't need to carry all of that right now.” For the first time in weeks, Solenne felt the tightness in her shoulders ease. That night after dinner, she laid in bed staring at the ceiling, thinking about what her parents had said. She didn't want another week of waking up and immediately checking job listings. She didn't want to spend her mornings rewriting her résumé and her evenings wondering whether she was already falling behind. She wanted somewhere quiet. Somewhere familiar. Somewhere she wouldn't be expected to have an answer every time someone asked what she planned to do next. And then she thought of her grandmother. Two months. That was all she wanted. Two months to rest. Two months to read. Two months to wake up without feeling as though she was already late for something. By the following morning, Solenne had made up her mind. She would spend her break with her grandmother in the province. And for the first time since graduation, the future could wait. The trip to the province took several hours. For most of the journey, Solenne watched the world pass by through the car window in slow, unbroken fragments. The glass was cool against her temple, and the steady hum of the engine seemed to settle into the rhythm of the road. Somewhere between one town and the next, her eyes grew heavy. She tried to keep them open, blinking whenever another stretch of scenery caught her attention, but eventually the movement outside became a blur of colors and shapes. She fell asleep. When she woke, the highway was already behind them. Solenne lifted her head from the window, leaving a faint warmth where her cheek had rested against the glass. For a few seconds, she simply stared outside, still caught between sleep and waking. The scenery had changed. Concrete buildings had given way to modest houses set further apart, many surrounded by wide yards enclosed by rusting metal gates or low concrete fences. Some had brightly painted walls faded by years of sunlight and rain. Others were made of weathered wood, their roofs patched in places and their windows propped open to let the afternoon air inside. Small sari-sari stores appeared along the roadside, their faded signs hanging beneath corrugated metal awnings. Bottles and packets of goods filled their narrow displays while plastic chairs sat outside in the shade. Children ran between the houses, chasing one another barefoot along the roadside. Their laughter carried through the warm afternoon air before fading behind the car. Coconut trees rose above the rooftops, their leaves swaying whenever the wind passed through them. Solenne lowered the window slightly. Warm air slipped inside, carrying the smell of dust, leaves, and sun-warmed earth. She breathed it in. Something inside her loosened. The town wasn't beautiful in the way tourist places were beautiful. There were no grand buildings or famous landmarks, nothing polished or particularly impressive. That was precisely what made it feel familiar. She remembered afternoons here from when she was younger—sitting beside her grandmother, listening to neighbors talk across their gates, hearing dogs bark somewhere down the road. At night, the streets become quite enough for the sounds of insects to drift through the open windows. The memories returned without effort. The car turned onto an even narrower road. Solenne straightened in her seat. She knew this road. A small chapel appeared at the corner, followed by an old acacia tree that seemed much larger than she remembered. The road curved once more, passing familiar houses before finally leading toward her grandmother's property. Then she saw it. There it was. Her grandmother's house. The house looked smaller than she remembered. Or perhaps I've simply grown. When she was a child, the house seemed enormous. The ceilings had felt impossibly high, the staircase endless, and the hallway at night dark enough to hide anything her imagination could invent. Now, from the back seat of the car, Solenne could see the whole house at once. It stood behind a low concrete wall, shaded by trees and surrounded by a carefully tended yard. The house had been built decades before Solenne was born. Time had left its marks on it, but her grandmother had never allowed it to look neglected. The exterior walls were painted a soft cream, though the color had faded in places beneath years of sun and rain. Thin cracks ran through portions of the plaster. Tall wooden windows lined the upper floor, each framed by dark shutters that had become slightly uneven with age. A wide veranda stretched across the front. Its wooden floor had been polished countless times, though some boards were darker than others. Potted plants crowded the edges—ferns, orchids, flowering plants, and several others Solenne couldn't name. Her grandmother always claimed she didn't collect plants. Solenne had never believed her. At the side of the house stood the mango tree. Solenne's eyes immediately went to it. It is enormous now. Its thick trunk rose from the edge of the yard, rough bark marked with deep lines, while its branches stretched outward and formed a broad canopy over the grass. It was much larger than she remembered. She smiled. She had climbed that tree when she was eight. She had been convinced she could reach one of the higher branches. She had also been convinced she could climb back down. Well, the first part was true. The second had not. She had slipped, landed directly on one of her grandmother's flowerpots, and broken it cleanly in half. For years afterward, her grandmother had referred to the incident as the mango tree disaster. Solenne had never been allowed to forget it. Apparently, neither had her grandmother. The corner of Solenne's mouth lifted as the car rolled toward the house. Some memories had faded with time. Others, somehow, had stayed exactly where she left them. The car had barely come to a complete stop before the front door of the old house swung open. Solenne looked up from the window. For a moment, she saw only the familiar doorway framed by climbing vines and potted plants, the afternoon sunlight spilling across the veranda. Then her grandmother appeared, one hand resting against the wooden doorframe as she stepped outside. “Solenne!” The sound of her name carried across the yard. Solenne's face immediately softened into a smile. “Lola!” She pushed the car door open before the taxi driver could tell her to wait. The moment her feet touched the ground, the warmth of the afternoon wrapped around her. The air felt different here—thicker somehow, carrying the scent of sun-warmed grass, damp soil, and the faint sweetness of flowers growing somewhere beyond the house. She barely had time to straighten before her grandmother reached her. Arms went around her shoulders. Solenne laughed softly as she was pulled into a warm, familiar embrace, her cheek pressing against the soft fabric of her grandmother's blouse. And then she smelled it. The scent she remembered from childhood. Face powder. Laundry soap. Something faintly herbal, like dried leaves kept inside an old wooden cabinet. It was such an ordinary combination, yet the familiarity of it settled somewhere deep in her chest. For a few seconds, Solenne wasn't twenty-two anymore. She was five. She was small enough to fit beneath the crook of her grandmother's arm, sleepy-eyed and wrapped in a blanket while listening to bedtime stories. She could almost hear the old electric fan turning above her, almost feel the rough cotton of the bedsheets beneath her fingers. Then her grandmother pulled away. Both hands immediately went to Solenne's shoulders as she looked her over from head to toe. She knew that expression. It was the same expression her grandmother had worn every time she returned home from school, every holiday, every family gathering. The inspection. Her grandmother narrowed her eyes. “You've gotten thinner.” Solenne let out a tired sigh, yet she smiled at her Lola. “Hello to you, too.” Her grandmother's eyebrows lifted. “I didn't say you looked bad.” “You never do.” “I said, you’ve gotten thinner.” “Which is worse,” Solenne pointed out. Her grandmother stared at her for a moment before a laugh escaped her. It was the same laugh Solenne remembered—the warm, slightly breathless one that always made the corners of her grandmother's eyes crease. “Come inside,” she said, reaching for one of Solenne's hands. “I made lunch.” Solenne glanced back toward the car, where her luggage was still waiting in the open trunk. The taxi driver was kind enough to bring them out. Two suitcases stood side by side, their handles extended and their wheels slightly dusty from the long drive. One was her own, dark blue and already showing the strain of being packed far too tightly. The other was an older brown suitcase with worn edges and a handle that never seemed to retract properly. Beside them sat her canvas bag, sagging beneath the weight of the books she had brought with her. “Thank you, Kuya!” The kind driver just smiled at her and nodded. Solenne then turned back to the house, then looked at her grandmother again. “You made food before I arrived?” Her grandmother gave her a look as though Solenne had just asked the most ridiculous question in the world. “I knew you were coming.” Solenne blinked. “I told you yesterday.” “Exactly.” There was no further explanation. There didn't need to be. Solenne stared at her for a moment before a smile slowly found its way onto her face. She shook her head, letting out a quiet laugh as she reached for her two suitcases. Of course, she had. Her grandmother had always been like this. She could arrive unexpectedly, call five minutes before reaching the house, or announce that she was coming only the night before, and somehow there would already be a freshly prepared meal waiting for her. Some things, apparently, had not changed.