The nets never behaved, and Rylan was pretty sure they hated him personally. The salvaged wires curled against his fingers, scraping skin, biting at his nails every time he tugged them through the makeshift frame. He groaned loudly and shot a look at the two people on either side of him. His grandfather, tatay Samson, just chuckled. His sound was low and warm just like the sea he never shut up about. Born in 2018, before the great flood sunk up most of the regions in the ancient Philippines, before the wars, the bombs, and the creepers, he carried the ocean in the way he talked and the way his eyes softened whenever he glanced at the horizon. His hands moved with easy certainty, looping and pulling the wire as if it were gentle rope instead of scavenged metal. Nanay Irene, Ry's grandmother, sat across from them, brow furrowed, lips moving in quiet prayer as she tied knot after knot. She prayed for strong nets, safe tides, no storms, and—Ry suspected—for all of them to stop doing s
Last Updated : 2025-12-11
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