Aisle of Light

Chapter 1: Dream

There were no clocks in Elira’s room—only the rhythmic chirping of crickets, the low hum of the electric fan rotating lazily from side to side, and the distant crow of a rooster signaling that dawn was near. In the province, time felt like a stream—slow, constant, and quiet, unlike the rushed torrent of city life. In Barangay Balagtas, people measured time by the soft changes in the wind and the warm scent of cooked rice wafting through the air.

Elira sat up on her banig, brushing aside strands of hair that clung to her forehead. Sweat beaded at her nape. The air was still thick with sleep, but her chest rose and fell rapidly—her heart hammering against her ribs.

She had dreamt something strange. Something unlike any dream she had ever had.

She didn’t fully understand it, but she remembered every detail, like it had been etched into her skin. Her palms were still cold, her mouth dry from the intensity of it.

It wasn’t just a dream. It felt like a message.

She closed her eyes and let the memory wash over her again.

There was a chapel—not like the small barangay one she visited every Sunday. This one was bigger, older, and sacred in a way that felt timeless. It had thick wooden beams that creaked gently above her, whispering tales from the past. The aisle was long and empty, framed by rows of white Catholic chairs. At the end of each row stood a large white vase, each filled with blooming lilies—their petals glowing in the soft light, their scent faint but calming.

Above the altar, a massive circular window cast light so pure, so golden, it felt divine. It wasn’t colored like stained-glass windows in old churches—it was simple, clear, and majestic. And it poured its light onto a wooden staircase that led to the altar.

There were several steps, but her eyes locked onto the second one.

That’s where he stood.

A man—tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a black suit that clung perfectly to his form. His presence was striking, as if he didn’t belong to the world but to something more ethereal. His black shoes shone in the sunlight, though he looked down at them with quiet disdain.

“I don’t like wearing these shoes,” he had said in a voice that was soft yet resonant—like it came from both within and around her.

Elira had tried to move closer, but the light wrapped around him, obscuring his features. She couldn’t see his face—only a silhouette. His jaw was sharp, the shadow of his lips curved slightly into a smile, but everything else was lost in brilliance.

Still, she felt it.

The sense of knowing him.

The feeling that he had been waiting for her, standing there on the second stair, framed by light and silence.

She had reached out her hand.

And then—

“Elira!”

Her mother’s voice cut through the morning haze like a blade. Elira snapped back to the present, gasping slightly as her fingers tightened on the edge of her woven blanket.

“Elira! The flowers! Bring them to the chapel!”

“Po?” she called back, her voice croaky.

“The lilies! Father Lito needs help setting up!”

Elira swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood. Her knees felt weak. Her mind was still wrapped in the dream’s glow, but the scent of garlic frying and the sight of sunbeams breaking through the bamboo slats pulled her fully into reality.

She washed her face at the stone basin outside and tied her long, dark hair into a braid. Her white blouse and faded skirt clung to her frame as she moved through the house, barefoot, her heart still oddly heavy.

“Elira, anak,” her mother said, handing her a bundle wrapped in banana leaves. “Careful with the lilies. They bruise easily.”

She nodded, took the bundle with both hands, and stepped out into the morning.

The barangay was already stirring. Children ran down the narrow road with sticks and bottle caps, chasing make-believe cars. Women sat on stools outside, sweeping or peeling vegetables, shouting greetings from porch to porch. Elira nodded politely as she passed, clutching the lilies close, the warmth of the sun prickling her arms.

The dream replayed again—his voice, his shoes, that glorious light.

She shook her head.

It was just a dream.

But then she saw it.

The chapel.

And her breath caught in her throat.

It looked ordinary from the outside. Small, with weathered paint and a slanted roof covered in patches. But as she pushed the heavy wooden door open, a strange déjà vu settled over her like a shawl.

The aisle. The chairs. The vases. The light from the circular window.

Everything.

Exactly.

The same.

Elira stepped inside slowly, barefoot on the cool stone floor. Her heartbeat echoed in the silence. She walked toward the front, toward the stairs. Her gaze locked on the second step—the place where the man had stood.

It was empty now. Just dust and light.

“Elira?”

She turned abruptly. Father Lito was smiling at her from the side pew, his arms full of hymn books. “You alright, hija?”

“Yes, Father,” she said quickly, forcing a smile. “Just… the sunlight. It’s beautiful today.”

He followed her gaze and nodded. “That window always was my favorite. Catches the morning light like no other.”

She knelt by the vases, carefully placing the lilies one by one. Her hands trembled, and she wasn’t sure if it was from awe or fear. Could a dream reflect reality so exactly? Or had her memory filled in the gaps?

“Maybe I saw this place in a dream before,” she whispered to herself.

A breeze stirred through the open doors, lifting a strand of hair across her cheek. She looked up again, squinting into the light.

It wasn’t just light. It was a presence.

And she felt it—deep in her chest.

The strange certainty that the man would return. That the dream was only the beginning.

She didn’t tell anyone. Not her siblings. Not her friends. Not even her diary, which usually caught her wildest thoughts.

Instead, she kept returning to the chapel every day.

At the same time.

When the light was just right.

Waiting.