CHAPTER ONE

​"Harris, you can head out now. Your shift is over," Mr. Baker said. He didn't look up from the counter; his weathered hands were busy smoothing out crumpled twenty-peso bills, organizing them by face value with the muscle memory of forty years in trade.

​I glanced at my watch: 9:00 PM. The flour dust on my forearms felt like a second skin, itchy and dry. I didn't rush to the door. Instead, I grabbed the broom and finished the last corner of the shop, sweeping away the ghost of today’s bread. Only then did I wash up and reach for my bag.

​As I approached the counter, Mr. Baker handed me a small brown envelope. "Your pay for today," he said. His smile was the only thing in this neighborhood that felt genuinely sweet. I thanked him, tucked the envelope deep into my pocket, and stepped out into the thick, humid air of the city.

​A block away, under a flickering streetlamp, I checked the contents. Three hundred pesos. It was enough for a few meals and a jeepney fare, but in a city like this, it felt like trying to put out a fire with a glass of water. I was twenty years old and entirely alone. My father, a man whose face appeared on the business section of the Sunday paper, treated my existence like a clerical error he couldn't quite erase. He had offered me a "home" once, but it was really a cage—a deal where I was the live-in servant for his legitimate son. I’d walked away from that gilded life with nothing but the clothes on my back and a burning need to prove him wrong. I’d rather sleep on a thin mat in a rented room than be a footstool in a mansion.

​The rain started suddenly—a violent, tropical downpour that turned the asphalt into a mirror. I hoisted my bag over my head and ran for the nearest waiting shed.

​I wasn't alone. She was standing there, shivering slightly. Her dress was expensive, the kind of fabric that didn't belong in a bus stop, but she was drenched just like I was. For a moment, our eyes met. In the dim light of the storm, she looked like a vision of a world I wasn't allowed to inhabit. We stood in silence for an hour, the rain creating a wall between us and the rest of the world. When the storm finally broke, I watched her walk toward a waiting car, leaving me behind in the damp silence. I didn't know then that the rain was a bridge, not a barrier.

​A week later, the academic year began. I stood at the gates of the university, adjusting the straps of my bag. I was a scholarship student—a "working scholar"—which meant I had to maintain a grade point average that left no room for error.

​"Look at him," I heard a girl whisper near the fountain. "Is he new? He looks like a model."

"I heard he’s a genius. Top of the entrance exams."

​I kept my head down. Their compliments felt like weight I didn't want to carry. They saw a handsome face and a sharp mind; they didn't see the guy who smelled like yeast and cheap soap. I was an intruder in their paradise.

​Then, I saw her. She was sitting on a stone bench, surrounded by friends who laughed loudly at some private joke. She looked even more radiant in the sunlight, her hair caught in the breeze. My heart did a slow, heavy roll in my chest. This time, when she looked up and caught my eye, she didn't look away. She frowned slightly, as if trying to place me, and I felt a bolt of panic. I turned and walked faster, disappearing into the crowd of the Engineering building.

​By noon, my stomach was a hollow ache. I bypassed the cafeteria—where a single meal cost half my daily wage—and climbed the stairs to the rooftop. It was the only place where the air felt free. I pulled out a slightly squashed hamburger Mr. Baker had tucked into my bag that morning and opened my Business Management textbook.

​"So, this is where you hide."

​The voice was unmistakable. I looked up to see her standing by the door, the sunlight silhouetting her. "Are you okay?" she asked, walking over and waving her hands in front of my face with a playful grin. "You looked like you were in a trance."

​"I'm fine," I said, my voice sounding rougher than I intended. "What are you doing up here?"

​"I wanted some peace," she said, leaning against the railing. She looked at my lunch, then at the heavy textbook. "A burger and a business book. You're a man of focus, aren't you? Are you reading that because you’re the heir to some massive empire? Everyone says you're the mystery son of a tycoon."

​The irony was a bitter pill. "I'm nobody's heir," I said, my tone turning cold. "I'm just a student."

​Her smile faltered, replaced by a soft, apologetic look. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be intrusive. I’m just... talkative when I’m nervous. I’ll let you eat in peace. See you around, Harris."

​She knew my name. I watched her walk away, feeling a strange mix of regret and longing. See you around.

​That evening, the bakery felt smaller than usual. I worked in a daze, stocking the shelves with Spanish bread and ensaymada.

​"You're quiet tonight, Mr. Apprentice," Mr. Baker remarked, leaning his elbows on the glass counter.

​"Just thinking, sir," I replied. "About the school. About how different the people are there. They spend more on a cup of coffee than most people earn in a day. It feels like we're living in two different countries."

​Mr. Baker nodded slowly. "They pay for the feeling of being special, kid. They want the fancy lights and the brand name. But bread is bread. It all fills the stomach the same way."

​"I don't know," I said, looking out at the darkened street. "Sometimes I feel like I'm playing a part. Like I’m an actor pretending to be a student, and then I come here and I’m a baker. I don’t know which one is the real me."

​"The real you is the one who keeps showing up," the old man said firmly. "Don't get lost in the 'rich and poor' talk. Find someone to share the load with. A partner. You shouldn't be a lone wolf forever."

​"I have you," I teased, trying to lighten the mood. "You're my partner in crime."

​He chuckled, a deep, raspy sound. "You're a good kid, Harris. Now, go home. You’ve got an early class."

​When I got back to my tiny, one-room apartment, the silence felt deafening. I sat on my bed and pulled out the salary envelope. I expected the usual three hundred pesos—the standard daily rate we had agreed upon.

​But when I opened it, a thick stack of bills fell out. Two thousand and five hundred pesos. My hands shook as I counted it. Tucked inside was a scrap of paper from a ledger book.

​My Apprentice, it read in his shaky handwriting. You make this old shop feel like a home. Use this for your books and your lunch. Don't let your stomach be empty while your head is full of dreams. — Mr. Baker.

​I stared at the money, then at the bare walls of my room. For years, I had believed that I had to do everything on my own—that the world was a place of transactions and cold silences. But as the rain began to patter against my window again, I realized that maybe, just maybe, there were people willing to build bridges if I was brave enough to cross them.

​Tomorrow, I wouldn't eat lunch on the rooftop alone. Tomorrow, if I saw her, I would say hello.