Saturday arrived with the usual hum of life in their neighborhood—laughter from kids playing tumbang preso, the clang of pots from nearby homes, and the occasional shouting match from the sari-sari store at the corner. Joyce stepped out of the tricycle with her bag on her shoulder, squinting up at the tangled mess of electric wires crisscrossing overhead.
Their small home stood along one of the narrow alleys, where the houses—made of patched concrete, tin roofs, and makeshift wood—were packed so tightly together that you could hear your neighbor sneeze next door. Hindi sila naghihirap nang husto, but life had always been modest. Close quarters, no real privacy, but the kind of place where everyone knew each other's name.
Pagbukas niya ng pinto, naabutan niya ang ina sa may kusina, tahimi
