Falling For You in the Wrong Century

CHAPTER 2: ANCESTRAL HOME

I handed in my resignation this morning—no notice, no second thoughts. My savings are more than enough to live comfortably for years, and I know exactly where I need to go. The ancestral house my grandparents left me stands at the heart of our province’s capital, a 150-year-old structure that feels more like a piece of history than a home.

Driving up the cobblestone path, I’m struck by how time seems to slow here. The two-story stone house has thick walls, dark wood beams, and windows with capiz shells that glow golden in the afternoon sun. Inside, the air smells of wood, old books, and something sweet I can’t place—like sampaguita and dried mangoes. Portraits line the grand staircase wall: my great-great grandparents in Spanish-era attire, my grandparents on their wedding day, my parents on their first trip abroad.

But it’s the portrait of my great-great grandmother’s old maid sister that stops me every time. We share the same high cheekbones, dark curly hair, and full lips—even the way our eyes tilt slightly downward is identical. The only difference is her expression: deep sadness sits heavy in her gaze, like she’s carrying a secret she can’t tell. The house has five wide rooms, each filled with antique furniture, and a sprawling backyard where mango and coconut trees grow tall. It’s beautiful, but it carries a weight that makes my skin prickle with recognition.