Chapter 2 : The White Candle

Hindi ako umuwi para magpalit ng damit.

After class, habang isa-isang lumalabas ang mga estudyante sa gate ng San Aurelio Academy, nakatayo lang ako sa ilalim ng puno ng acacia, suot pa rin ang uniform ko. White blouse. Navy skirt. ID lace na nakasabit sa leeg ko. Shoes na may alikabok sa gilid dahil buong araw akong naglalakad na parang may hinahanap.

Or maybe may tinatakasan.

My phone was heavy in my hand. Kanina ko pa tinititigan ang message ni Mama.

**Text me when you get there. Uwi ka before ten. Please don’t go alone if you feel like you can’t handle it.**

Hindi ko alam kung paano sasagutin iyon.

Because how was I supposed to know if I could handle it?

Hindi pa ako nakakapunta sa wake ng kaklase. Hindi pa ako nakatayo sa harap ng pangalan ng taong kahapon lang ay nasa attendance sheet pa. Hindi pa ako nakaramdam ng ganitong klaseng guilt, iyong hindi mo alam kung saan galing pero nakadikit sa dibdib mo like a second skin.

I typed: **I’m okay. Promise.**

Then I deleted the promise before sending it.

The ride to Veloria Memorial Hall took twenty minutes, pero feeling ko mas matagal. I sat near the window of the jeepney, my bag on my lap, staring at the city as it slowly changed from school-hour chaos to evening traffic. May mga tindera nang nagsisindi ng ilaw sa stalls nila. May mga estudyanteng tumatawa habang kumakain ng fishball sa kanto. May batang umiiyak dahil ayaw umuwi.

Everything kept moving.

That felt unfair.

Pagbaba ko sa tapat ng memorial hall, hindi agad ako tumawid. I stood on the other side of the street, watching the glass doors open and close. People walked in carrying flowers, paper bags, bottled water, quiet faces.

Above the entrance, glowing white letters spelled out:

**VELORIA MEMORIAL HALL**

And beside the door was a board with names.

I didn’t want to look.

So, of course, iyon ang una kong ginawa.

**CAELAN MATEO VASQUEZ**  

**Viewing Room 3**

My fingers went cold.

Mateo.

I didn’t even know his middle name.

“Miss, kandila?”

Napalingon ako. May matandang babae sa gilid ng gate, nakaupo sa maliit na plastic chair, may kahong puno ng white candles sa harap niya. Her hair was tied in a low bun, and her eyes were kind but tired.

“Para sa yumao,” she said gently.

I bought one kahit hindi ko alam kung saan ko ilalagay. Ten pesos. Isang maliit na puting kandila. Parang sobrang gaan niya sa kamay ko, pero habang hawak ko siya, parang may bigat na lumipat sa palad ko.

“First time?” tanong ng matanda.

I blinked. “Obvious po ba?”

“Obvious kapag gustong pumasok pero hindi makagalaw.”

I tried to smile. It didn’t work.

“Classmate ko po,” I said.

The woman nodded slowly, like that explained everything and nothing at the same time. “Then light it for him.”

I crossed the street before I could change my mind.

Inside, malamig ang lobby. Too cold. Amoy kape, sampaguita, wax, at flowers na nagsisimula nang malanta. May soft instrumental music na tumutugtog somewhere, pero hindi ko mahanap kung saan nanggagaling. Maybe speakers hidden in the ceiling. Maybe grief had its own background music.

Viewing Room 3 was at the end of the hallway.

Bawat hakbang ko papunta roon, parang may humihila sa akin pabalik.

I heard voices before I saw anyone. Low murmurs. A woman crying quietly. Someone saying, “Kumain ka muna.” Someone else answering, “Mamaya na.”

Then I reached the doorway.

Caelan’s photo was beside the entrance.

Not a formal studio picture. Not one of those stiff portraits na parang pang-yearbook. It was a candid shot. He was sitting near a window, half-looking away from the camera, wearing a black jacket over his uniform. His hair was messy, falling near his eyes, and there was a pencil tucked behind his ear.

He looked annoyed.

He looked alive.

My throat tightened.

“Hi.”

A girl about my age stood beside the memory table, holding a black marker. She had short hair, swollen eyes, and a cardigan that looked too big for her.

“Classmate ka ni Caelan?” she asked.

I nodded. “Lyra. Lyra Villanueva.”

“I’m Tala,” she said. “Pinsan niya.”

I didn’t know what to say after that. Sorry felt too small. Condolence sounded too formal. I wanted to say I should have known him better, but that would have been cruel to admit to someone who actually loved him.

So I only said, “Thank you for letting students come.”

Tala looked down at the marker in her hand. “Mama niya wanted people to write something. Kahit short lang.”

She pointed at the open notebook on the table.

My chest sank.

Pages were filled with messages.

**You were quiet but kind.**  

**Thank you for helping me in math.**  

**Rest easy, Cael.**  

**I wish we talked more.**

That last one hurt.

Tala handed me the marker.

I stared at the blank space near the bottom of the page.

What could I write?

I didn’t have a story big enough for grief. I didn’t have memories that deserved space beside the memories of people who knew his laugh, his favorite food, the songs he listened to when he couldn’t sleep.

All I had was a pen.

Last semester, during a surprise quiz, my ballpen had stopped working. I remembered panicking silently while everyone started writing. Then a blue pen rolled across the aisle and stopped beside my shoe.

Caelan didn’t even look at me when he said, “Use it.”

Two words.

That was all.

But I passed that quiz because of him.

My hand shook as I wrote:

**Thank you for the blue pen. I’m sorry I never gave you more than silence.**

I capped the marker too quickly.

Tala read it.

For one terrifying second, I thought she would ask what it meant.

Instead, she whispered, “He always had extra pens.”

Something inside me twisted.

I looked away before she could see my eyes fill.

I moved toward the candle stand near the side of the room. Several candles were already burning, their small flames trembling under the aircon. I placed mine beside the others and tried to light it using the long matchstick in the jar.

The first match snapped.

The second burned too fast and almost caught my fingers.

“Careful,” Tala said softly behind me.

“I’m okay,” I lied.

On the third try, the wick caught.

A tiny flame rose.

For some reason, that was what broke me.

Not the photo. Not the flowers. Not the notebook.

The candle.

That small, stubborn light standing in a room built for goodbye.

I pressed my fingers against my mouth and turned away.

I didn’t sob. I didn’t make a sound. But tears slipped down my face anyway, hot and humiliating and impossible to stop.

I barely knew him.

I barely knew him.

I barely knew him.

The words didn’t comfort me anymore. They only made it worse.

Because maybe that was the point.

Maybe I should have.

I stayed at the wake for almost an hour. I didn’t go near the casket. I couldn’t. Instead, I sat at the very back of the room, my bag on my lap, watching people come and go.

Some cried like the world had ended.

Some looked guilty.

Some looked curious.

A few classmates arrived together, whispering too loudly near the doorway. One of them said, “Ang weird. I never thought he’d actually…” before another elbowed him hard in the ribs.

I wanted to scream.

But I didn’t.

I just sat there, hands clenched around my bag strap, realizing that death didn’t make people kinder. Sometimes it only made them quieter.

At eight-thirty, I finally stood.

Tala saw me leaving and followed me to the hallway.

“Thanks for coming,” she said.

I shook my head. “I don’t think I helped.”

“You came,” she answered. “That counts.”

I didn’t know if I believed her.

Outside, the night had turned damp. Not raining exactly, but the air felt wet, like the sky had been crying before everyone else caught up. I checked my phone.

Three missed calls from Mama.

Great.

I was about to call her back when the streetlights flickered.

Once.

Twice.

Then all the candles on the small table near the gate went out at the same time.

I froze.

The old woman who sold candles earlier was gone. Her plastic chair was empty. The box of candles remained, but the white candle at the very top had been burned halfway down, even though no one had lit it.

“Lyra Villanueva.”

My body went cold.

The voice came from behind me.

Calm. Low. Almost polite.

I turned slowly.

A man stood near the gate, holding my candle between two fingers.

My candle.

The one I had lit inside.

He didn’t look old, but he didn’t look young either. His hair was black, his face pale under the streetlight, and he wore a clean white barong that moved slightly even though there was no wind. His eyes were the strangest part.

Not black.

Not glowing.

Just empty.

Like a door opened into a place with no end.

I stepped back. “Who are you?”

He looked at the candle flame, then at me.

“Someone who heard what you wrote.”

My heart slammed against my ribs.

“That’s not funny.”

“No,” he said. “It isn’t.”

I gripped my phone tighter. “If this is some kind of prank—”

“You believe you should have done something,” he said.

I stopped breathing.

The man tilted his head. “Would you?”

“What?”

“If given the chance,” he asked, voice soft as ash, “would you do something?”

The candle flame bent toward me.

My mouth went dry.

Somewhere behind me, a car passed. The sound faded too quickly, like the night swallowed it whole.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I whispered.

“Yes, you do.”

He smiled, but there was nothing warm in it.

“People have called me many things, Lyra. But since you’re already frightened, let’s keep this simple.”

The flame went out.

Darkness folded around us.

“You may call me Death.”