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In the coastal quiet of Baler, a studio is born—not of architecture, but of intention.* Founded by Yam, a poet whose words cradle pain gently, and Franc, an artist who paints tenderness into walls, the studio becomes a refuge for those learning to stay—with grief, love, longing, and themselves. As visitors arrive, they leave behind more than footprints: a sigh recorded in bamboo, a poem tucked into the “Found Letters” shelf, a mural painted in crooked lines. Through zines, tea, silence, and sketchbooks, the studio teaches softness as revolution. Ren creates the *Window of Soft Returns*, an installation of anonymous voice recordings—each whisper forming a community of echoes. Drew builds the *Staircase With No Wrong Turns*, inviting people to walk through emotions without shame. Franc offers brushstrokes as brave work, and Yam curates writing circles that map healing in half sentences. Together, they host festivals that feel like hugs, and they begin traveling their archive, letting softness cross oceans. Even those who once left—like Miguel—return, discovering that some doors never truly close. Others, like Tala, capture the studio’s sound and turn it into a podcast of breath and becoming. Over seventy chapters, the studio transforms into something larger than itself: a mural of memory, a sanctuary for second chances, a place where return is sacred and voice is proof of survival. In the final bloom, the studio stands not as a monument—but as a reminder: > *“Staying isn’t easy. > But chosen together, > it becomes home.”*
View MoreChapter 1
Part 1 "I’m Yam"
😎 "I’m Yam"
I’m Yam. Don’t ask about the name—it’s pointless. Not exotic or poetic, and certainly not short for “yummy.” More like “yamot”—fate’s way of saying it’s annoyed I exist. I’m 24 years old and five-foot-three of sarcastic, tan, semi-delusional energy. Some say I’m weird. I say weird is giving me too much credit.
Now, let’s skip the intro. You don’t need a full resume for what happened that night.
It was 10pm. I was trudging through Eskineta Madilim Street—a narrow back-alley with zero lights and infinite bad vibes. If purgatory had an address, this would be it. The shadows hung heavy like regret. This wasn’t your average creepy place. This was “don’t breathe too loud or you might summon something” territory.
I was halfway through the alley when I heard it.
“Help...”
Cue goosebumps. It wasn’t loud, but it reverberated like a whisper inside a coffin. I froze for a millisecond, decided ghosts probably weren’t real, and kept walking.
“Help, I said! You son of a—”
Whoa. Did this ghost just curse at me?
That’s new.
You’d think a wandering soul would be polite while begging for salvation. Not this one. Rude.
I stopped and scanned the area. Nothing. I whispered to myself, “I swear I’m not high... why am I hearing voices like I’m chasing dragons?”
I picked up my pace. Fast. My nerves? Shot.
“Hey!!! Where do you think you’re going?! I said HELP ME, asshole!!”
Okay. Pause. Was the ghost... speaking English now?
Asshole???
Who taught the spirit modern slang? Was it watching N*****x in the afterlife?
“Damn it, ghost! Shut it and follow the light already!” I shouted, full Pinoy sass.
Dogs howled in protest like they’d just witnessed paranormal disrespect.
Then came a response I didn’t expect.
“What light? There’s no freaking light here, man! Look UP! I’m hanging here!”
I looked.
And—no lie—it was like laundry on a line. But instead of shirts, it was a dude. His legs were looped through wire like spaghetti gone rogue. The rest of him hung upside-down, head dangerously close to cracking against concrete.
“What the hell are you doing up there?” I gasped.
“Save the questions. Just get me down, please!”
He was desperate—but also kind of... absurd?
Still, I hunted around for something to stand on. Found a crate. Lifted him down with more sweat than strength.
He landed clumsily, then straightened himself.
“Thanks, bro. Thought I was a goner.”
“Goner from hanging like someone’s sock? Chill. The sun would’ve found you in a few hours,” I replied.
Also—“bro”?
We’re bro-ing now?
“Anyway, how’d you get up there?” I asked, eyeing him now that he was upright.
And—woah.
Eyes: sharp and deep
Nose: sculpted Lips: slightly chapped, probably kissable Stubble: hello, rugged vibe Hair: soft dishevelled waves Body: lean but defined Height: towering over me Skin tone: glowing like he eats expensive almonds for breakfastWas this guy the lost child of Aphrodite and Apollo?
Too handsome to be just “some dude.”
Before he could speak, he asked, “Got a smoke?”
“Nope, just candy.”
“That’ll work.” I handed him a mint. He peeled it and, instead of sucking it like a normal person, chewed it while staring at me.
I blinked. Who chews mint like gum?
“Anyway, I’m Franc.” He offered his hand.
I hesitated. Then took it. His palm was warm—warm, not clammy or awkward.
“Yam,” I said. His brows lifted.
“It’s not a great name,” I muttered, pulling my hand back.
“Nah, it’s cute,” he replied, flashing a grin with enough charm to power a small island.
“So... how did you get tangled up there again?” I asked.
“Got drunk. Some jerks thought it’d be funny to string me up like laundry. Woke up swinging from the wires.”
We both glanced at his former suspension zone.
“You’ve been there this whole time? That’s cold. Whoever did that has zero soul,” I said.
He shrugged. We started walking toward the brighter part of town.
Side note: he was really tall. My head barely made it to his chest. I tried not to look directly at him—I’d combust from secondhand hotness.
When we reached the sidewalk, the streetlights exposed him in full. He wasn’t just good-looking—he was unreal. Celebrity-level, but also... human. I hadn’t seen him in any teleseryes, so he had to be a regular guy. Right?
Then he plopped down on a bench. Looked ready to nap.
“You’re sleeping here?” I asked.
“Obvious, isn’t it?” he said, already lying down.
“What a snob. Fine, sleep here. Good luck waking up hung like a piñata again.”
He didn’t answer. Just shut his eyes like a kid pretending he wasn’t cold or tired. I couldn’t shake the image.
I sighed.
“Hey. Wake up. Just crash at my place. I’d feel guilty if you got mugged or floated into another wire trap. It’s nearby anyway.”
He opened one eye, then stood.
“Do you at least have an electric fan?” he asked.
Wow. No “thank you.” Just a request for cooling technology?
Maybe that’s why he got hung up. Too cheeky for public space.
Still... I led the way.
Because lucky for him—I’m nice.
Latest chapter
letters that staved Part 87: “Pages Others Left Me to Finish”
🪶 Let’s gently unfold Part 87—a quiet moment shaped by unfinished pages, by others trusting Jo to carry stories they couldn’t complete on their own. This chapter breathes in shared vulnerability.The studio breathed dust and possibility. Late afternoon light slanted through high windows, catching motes that swirled like lazy constellations above Jo’s head. She sat at the sturdy oak table, scarred by decades of creation, surrounded by scattered sheets. These weren't rejects; they were arrivals. Some, thin as onion skin, bore the faintest charcoal ghosts of landscapes or faces, torn deliberately at the edges as if the maker couldn't bear the commitment of a full page. Others were heavier stock, marked only with hesitant outlines – a single wing, the curve of a jawline, a geometric shape dissolving into nothingness. No names. No instructions. Just offerings, left anonymously in the studio’s overnight slot or tucked onto the communal shelves. Silent pleas, perhaps. Or simply things relea
Last Updated : 2025-08-05letters that staved Part 86: “The Visitor Who Found Their Story Waiting”
🌾 Let's walk gently into Part 86—a page shaped by memory, discovered unexpectedly. This one isn’t about creating—it’s about recognizing yourself in something already waiting.A traveler named Lani arrived in Baler near dusk. The sky was brushed with strokes of orange and violet, the horizon dipped in gold where the sun kissed the sea. She hadn’t planned to visit the studio. In fact, she hadn’t planned much at all. Lani was chasing quiet—following maps drawn by feeling rather than direction, a compass guided by whispers of wind and the silent language of her heart.She walked along the narrow path, her sandals stirring the dust, her mind adrift in the spaces between thoughts. As she passed the entryway, an unexpected pull anchored her steps. She paused before Jo’s mural: vast, alive, and breathing a story she couldn’t quite place. Her gaze traced the painted lavender spirals, bold yet tender, swirling like echoes of forgotten dreams.She didn’t speak.She stared.Her heart drummed a s
Last Updated : 2025-08-05letters that staved Part 85: “The Mural That Listened Back”
🕊️ Let’s let the story flow gently forward—Part 85 is a quiet evolution, where visitors begin expressing in color, sound, and gesture what they once hid behind words. This one celebrates the art of receiving.By sunrise, Jo’s mural had begun to gather echoes.Not just paint.Offerings.Someone placed a mango wrapped in blue thread beside it. Another taped a folded paper near the lavender spirals with only a date written: June 3. No explanation. Just presence.Yam watched as visitors paused, touched the wall lightly, and then left small tokens—colors, textures, folded fabric—without words.He whispered to Ren, “It’s listening.”Ren replied, “And they’re replying in the only language they trust.”Franc added a thin layer of translucent gold over one corner—a glaze that shifted depending on the light. It caught footprints, glances, and breaths.He named it:“What Was Left Behind, Intentionally”Jo didn’t try to lead the mural anymore. She added small strokes only when moved. She said, “
Last Updated : 2025-08-05letters that staved Part 84: “Letters Made of Color”
🌸 The journey continues—Part 84 opens like a page that’s already soft with fingerprints, a space where color becomes language, and memory finds new form.Jo woke early, the air in Baler stitched with sea salt and sunrise. She sat by the studio’s east-facing window, sketchbook open, brushes laid out like questions waiting to be answered. The gentle hum of the ocean was a constant companion, a soothing backdrop to her creative process. Today, she wasn’t writing letters today. She was painting them.The studio was a sanctuary, a place where time seemed to pause, allowing Jo to immerse herself in the world of colors and emotions. The walls were adorned with her previous works, each piece a testament to her journey, her struggles, and her triumphs. But today, the blank wall panel near the mural of Soft Arrivals beckoned her, a canvas waiting to be filled with stories untold.Yam passed by silently, placing a bowl of water beside her without comment. His presence was comforting, a reminder
Last Updated : 2025-08-05letters that staved Part 83: “Sketches That Didn’t Need Translation”
🕊️ Here we go again,—Part 83 unfolds like shared brushstrokes, a conversation not through words but through texture, color, and quiet understanding. This one is where Jo begins not by speaking, but by painting.Part 84: Letters in ColorThe next morning, Jo arrived at the studio earlier than usual, her sketchbook tucked under her arm, pages filled with restless lines from a sleepless night. The mural on the south wall greeted her, a breathing tapestry of colors and textures, layered stories etched in every curve and stroke.Franc was already there, his hands stained with shades of ochre and teal. He glanced over his shoulder, his smile a quiet echo of yesterday's collaboration."Morning, collaborator," he greeted softly, the word lingering like a brushstroke still drying.Jo returned the smile, settling into her usual corner. But something felt different. The space between them wasn’t just filled with silence—it buzzed with an unspoken invitation.She pulled out a fresh sheet of pape
Last Updated : 2025-08-05letters that staved Part 82: “The Road to Arrival Begins with Recognition”
🕊️ Let's keep weaving the thread,—Part 82 arrives like a suitcase packed with feelings, an unspoken map folded into the lining. This one follows motion—not rushed, but intentional.Jo had never meant to visit Baler.She’d read about the studio in zines, heard its echoes in Ren’s loops, and received letters from strangers she’d never meet. It felt sacred from afar—like stepping into it might disturb the silence she’d held close. But today, Jo boarded a bus with a small sketchbook in her bag and one mango tucked gently inside a linen pouch. No itinerary. Just intention.The bus rumbled through dusty roads framed by hills that rolled like quiet breaths of the earth itself. Jo watched the landscape shift, sunlight casting fleeting patterns on her sketchbook’s cover. She flipped it open, letting her pencil trace lines instinctively—faces observed in fleeting glances, emotions felt but undiagnosed.Meanwhile, the studio in Baler breathed patiently.Franc painted a wide ocean wave curling i
Last Updated : 2025-08-04
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