Chapter 1

The sun was already scorching, even before it had fully risen. Sweat clung to my nape, dampened my temples, and the air felt thick, unwilling to move. But I was used to it. San Felipe summers always felt this way—sticky and heavy, yet somehow comforting.

I woke to the sound of roosters crowing and the soft swish of my mother’s broom outside the quarters. She was humming an old tune as she swept, and the scent of cheap soap mixed with dust drifted in.

“Aya, wake up. Help your father in the garden,” she called, her voice gentle but firm.

“Yes, Nay.”

I quickly got up and put on old shorts and a white T-shirt. I tied my hair with a worn scrunchie and stepped outside barefoot, feeling the rough cement beneath my feet.

Off to the side, I saw my father. Sweat already glistened on his forehead even though the sun was still low, the hose in his hand watering the bougainvilleas.

“Tay, let me do that,” I said, taking the hose from him.

I turned the water toward the pots of succulents I had planted last year. That was my little project, and they were still alive. They seemed to smile at me as I sprinkled water over them, reviving with every drop.

“My hardworking daughter,” my father teased, his smile was full of pride.

I smiled back.

“Tay, the bougainvilleas have more flowers now, don’t they?”

“The weather’s been good,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow. “Just enough rain, just enough sun. People should be like that too—enough effort, enough rest, and they’ll flourish.”

He always found a way to sneak in a life lesson.

My gaze drifted to the mansion a few meters away from our quarters. Its windows were tall, grand, and almost shouting wealth and history. Sometimes I’d hear Madam Sofia’s piano, sometimes I’d see their curtains dancing in the wind. The place was quiet, but heavy too—like it was guarding its own secrets.

We lived in a small service quarter behind the vast Madriaga estate. It wasn’t luxurious, but it was bright and enough for us. Every summer break, I stayed here with Nanay and Tatay.

Nanay—Aling Myrna was known as the laundrywoman, sometimes helping in the kitchen. Tatay—Mang Ben was the gardener. He knew the names of every plant better than he knew the names of our neighbors back in the province.

The mansion’s staff felt like extended family. There was Manang Belen, the housekeeper, who loved to feed me tortang talong and fried rice, calling me apo like I was her grandchild.

There was Mang Tonyo, the talkative driver who always had gossip from town to barangay.

And Aling Berta, another laundress, whose son Jun was my age. We used to play hide-and-seek, though now he spends most of his time helping his mother.

“Amazing, isn't it? Even when it’s windy, not a single leaf’s out of place,” Mang Tonyo once said while fixing the car. “Don Alfredo doesn’t like a mess. When he walks by, everything has to be perfect.”

I remembered that while watering the plants. I rarely saw Don Alfredo, but even from afar, you could feel his presence.

Sometimes, Madam Celeste passed by. She was graceful, composed, with sharp eyes that made you feel like she could read your thoughts even without saying a word.

Madam Sofia, though, was different. Once, while playing piano, she handed me a mango.

“Aya, try this,” she said with a warm smile.

She was friendly, and approachable.

And of course, there was Sir Zedrick.

I often saw him on the veranda, holding a book or sometimes folders. Not arrogant, but not exactly approachable either. When he walked by, there was a weight to every step. It was as if he lived in a world no one else could easily enter.

After finishing my chores in the garden, Nanay called out to me.

“Aya, buy some pandesal at the corner store.”

“Okay, Nay.”

Carrying the basket, I walked down the long path out of the compound. I was used to it by now. Along the way, I greeted other workers—housemaids, drivers, even Kuya Gilbert, the guard by the gate.

“Good morning, Aya,” he greeted with a smile.

“Good morning, Kuya,” I replied.

When I came back, the smell of coffee and tortang talong filled the air. I almost ran to the kitchen.

“Aya, taste this,” said Manang Belen, handing me a plate.

“Thank you, Manang,” I replied, grinning as I took a bite.

I was still chewing on my pandesal when the door opened—and I nearly choked when I saw who entered.

Sir Zed.

He looked fresh and composed despite the early hour—white shirt, sleeves rolled neatly up, a book in hand. He walked straight toward the garage where the car was parked. He didn’t say a word, didn’t even glance our way, but somehow the air in the kitchen changed.

No one spoke, not even Manang. She froze for a moment, then resumed sweeping but couldn’t resist whispering,

“My, that young man is really quiet.”

I nodded in agreement.

Yes, quiet. But even without saying anything, he left a mark behind.

By afternoon, I was lying in our small room, sketchpad and pencil in hand, drawing the bougainvilleas I’d watered earlier.

Each petal, each curve of a branch—I tried to remember them perfectly.

While sketching, my thoughts drifted again to the Madriagas—a family said to be as rich as the land they owned. Always distant, yet always visible.

I didn’t know why, but whenever I thought of them, especially of Sir Zed—there was a strange heaviness in my chest. He wasn’t the kind of person you’d chase after. But when he passed by, you couldn’t help but notice.

I stared at my drawing, but my mind replayed the sound of his footsteps that morning. The way he walked casually, effortlessly yet leaving something unexplainable behind.

And before I fell asleep, one question lingered in my mind:

What would it feel like to walk into that mansion... not as the gardener’s daughter, but as someone who truly belonged inside it?