Mateo POV:
The darkness was not the blank void of unconsciousness. It did not carry the raw sting of pain. Instead, it wrapped around me like warm, still water—deep enough to swallow every sound, vast enough to let me drift untethered, beyond reach of anything that had ever hurt me.
Then the air shifted.
A new scent seeped through the quiet.
Earth.
Not the metallic tang of blood or the clinical bite of disinfectant. Not the sharp, sterile chill that clung to hospital walls like a second skin. This was earth as it was meant to be—wet soil baked by early morning rain, grass that had drunk in sunlight until it hummed with life, and beneath it all, the faint, honeyed sweetness of guava carried on a breeze that smelled of distance and home.
My eyes fluttered open slowly, as if pushing through silk.
Above me stretched a sky so wide it pressed against my ribs, making my chest ache with its scale. It was blue the color of a kingfisher's wing—endless, unmarked by smog or concrete. Clouds drifted across it like spun cotton, their edges soft and slow, as if time itself had decided to pause, to breathe, to take its time today. The sunlight did not burn or sting. It settled on my skin like a familiar hand—like something that knew the shape of my shoulders, the curve of my jaw.
I did not move. For a long moment, I lay perfectly still, afraid that even the smallest shift would shatter this world into smoke and shadow.
Then I felt it: wood beneath my back.
Old planks, worn smooth by years of use, slightly uneven where the grain had swelled and shrunk with the seasons. I knew that texture—the way it pressed into my spine, the faint give of it under weight. I inhaled sharply, and the air filled my lungs so fully I thought I might burst.
Bamboo walls, woven tight and weathered to a pale gold. A nipa roof, its dried leaves smelling of smoke and rain. Thin cotton curtains danced at the windows, their hems brushing the floor in a soft whisper. Beyond the walls came the cluck of chickens scratching at dust, the rustle of tall palm leaves as wind moved through them, the distant, lazy buzz of a bee.
My throat tightened until I could barely swallow.
Malaybalay.
Bukidnon.
Home.
I pushed myself up carefully, my muscles feeling light, unburdened. My bare feet found the cool dirt floor, and when I stepped outside, the world exploded in a wash of green.
Trees swayed freely under the sun, their leaves shimmering like polished jade—alive in a way no city plant had ever been, rooted deep and reaching high. Mountains layered the horizon in shades of emerald and moss, their peaks fading into a soft grey mist that blurred where land met sky. The air was cool on my skin but warm in my lungs—clean enough to fill me up instead of weighing me down.
I breathed it in deeply, and the ache in my chest sharpened. Because I had missed this. Not just the place, but the feeling of it—the way nature wrapped around you like a blanket, the way every scent and sound felt like a piece of yourself you'd forgotten you'd lost.
"Oi! Mateo!"
I spun around, my heart lurching.
Justin and Peter were running toward me from the dirt road that cut through the village, their bare feet kicking up puffs of red dust. Their laughter bounced ahead of them—bright, unguarded, the sound of boys who had never known fear or loss.
And we were smaller.
I looked down at my hands.
Thinner wrists, shorter fingers, a scab on my knee from a fall I couldn't quite place. Kids. We were kids again, with sun in our hair and dirt under our nails.
Joy crashed into me so hard I forgot to breathe—warm and fierce, rising from my belly up to my throat. But then I saw it.
Their faces were blurry. Not twisted or distorted, but soft at the edges, like someone had run a damp cloth over a painting, smudging the lines until features melted into shadow. I squinted, trying to focus, to make out the curve of Justin's grin or the freckles on Peter's nose—but the harder I tried, the more the blur held fast, as if the world itself was keeping those details hidden.
"Why do you look like that…?" I whispered, my voice small in the vast quiet.
"Look like what?" Peter laughed, and his voice was exactly as I remembered—high and clear, with a hint of mischief at the edges.
Justin shoved my shoulder playfully, his touch solid and real. "You're the one looking weird, mate. Come on! Uncle Tibur said he's got another story—you know how he gets if we're late!"
The way they said it—with that rush of excitement, that easy familiarity—settled in my chest like warm tea. The blurry faces didn't matter. Not if we were together.
I felt a smile stretch across my lips, so wide it made my cheeks ache.
"Another one?" I asked, and even my own voice sounded younger, lighter.
"Yes!" Justin pumped his fist in the air, his shirt riding up to show a pale strip of skin. "He said it's about a firefly that wanted to be a star! Can you believe it?"
Peter grabbed my wrist, his fingers tight and urgent. "Hurry up before he starts without us—last time he made us wait forever and told us the boring part first!"
I didn't hesitate. I let them pull me forward, and we ran down the path I knew by heart—lined with banana trees whose broad leaves slapped at our faces, wild grass that tickled our ankles, and patches of purple wildflowers that grew in the cracks of the dirt. The wind rushed past my ears, and I laughed—really laughed, with no weight on my chest, no fear in my bones. Everything felt light. Effortless. Right.
Uncle Tibur's house stood exactly where it had always been.
A small wooden structure, slightly tilted to the left as if it had grown tired of standing perfectly straight and decided to lean into the sun instead. The door was propped open with a smooth stone, and through it I could see him—sitting on his old carved chair, fanning himself with a woven palm leaf, his silhouette framed by afternoon light.
"Ahhh," he called out as we burst through the doorway, his voice deep and warm as burnt sugar. "The three troublemakers have finally arrived. I was starting to think you'd gotten lost chasing lizards again."
We tumbled inside and dropped onto the woven abaca mat that covered the floor, the rough fibers familiar against my bare legs. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed the sound of his voice until that moment—how it felt like coming home to a fire on a cold night, steady and grounded and safe.
He cleared his throat dramatically, setting his fan aside and leaning forward, his eyes twinkling in the dappled light.
"Today," he began, lowering his voice to the hushed tone he always used when a story was about to unfold, "I will tell you the tale of the firefly who wanted to become a star."
Justin gasped so loudly it echoed off the bamboo walls. "A star? But fireflies are tiny!"
Peter leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his eyes wide. "Do you think he can do it?"
And I—
I just smiled, feeling the warmth of the mat under me, the scent of woodsmoke and old books hanging in the air, and let myself sink into the moment.
Uncle Tibur leaned in closer, and his voice dropped until it was barely more than a whisper.
"There was once a small firefly," he said, "who made his home near a river that ran slow and dark through fields of tall grass. At night, he would sit on a reed and glow with the other fireflies—soft, steady light that danced on the water's surface, and was answered by the croak of quiet frogs."
Justin and Peter shifted closer, their shoulders brushing mine. A breeze drifted through the doorway, carrying the scent of sun-warmed wood and the faint perfume of jasmine from the vine that wrapped around the house.
"This firefly," Uncle Tibur continued, "was not like the rest. While his brothers and sisters were content to glow low, near the ground they knew, he would tilt his head back and look up at the night sky—at the stars that burned so bright and high, so far beyond anything he could reach. And every night, he would whisper to himself: 'Why am I down here… when the stars are up there?'"
Peter tilted his head, his brow furrowed. "But he's so small. How could he ever be a star?"
"Exactly," Uncle Tibur said, his smile soft and knowing. "He was small in body. But in his heart… he did not feel small at all."
Something tightened in my chest—a familiar ache, like remembering a word you can't quite name.
"The other fireflies tried to warn him," Uncle Tibur went on. "'You are only meant to glow near the ground,' they said. 'That is where you belong—that is where your light is needed.' But the little firefly would not listen. He believed that to be bright, to be important, he had to be high above the world."
Justin crossed his arms, his lower lip pushed out in a pout. "They're wrong. He can be whatever he wants to be!"
Uncle Tibur chuckled, the sound deep and rumbling. "Maybe. Maybe not. Let us see."
He paused, picking up his fan again and fanning himself slowly, his eyes distant as if he could see the firefly himself, dancing in the grass.
"One night, when the moon was dark and the stars burned their brightest, the firefly made up his mind. He would fly higher than he had ever gone before. He climbed on the backs of the wind, pushing past the branches of mango trees and the tops of coconut palms. He flew until his wings trembled with effort, until the air grew thin and cold around him."
I swallowed hard, my throat dry. I could almost feel the chill of that high air, the strain of wings pushing against gravity.
"But the higher he flew," Uncle Tibur said, his voice growing quieter, "the farther the stars seemed to pull away. They did not grow bigger or brighter—they remained just as distant, just as untouchable as they had been from the ground. The air grew so thin he could barely breathe, and the cold bit at his tiny body until his light began to flicker and fade."
Peter's face fell. "So he failed? He couldn't become a star?"
Uncle Tibur shook his head slowly, his eyes meeting mine. "No. He did not fail. He learned something."
He tapped his chest with one weathered finger, the sound sharp against the quiet of the room.
"He realized that the stars were not shining because they were high in the sky. They were shining because they were burning—giving up pieces of themselves every moment to light the dark."
Silence settled over us, thick and heavy as rain clouds. Outside, a cricket began to sing, its song slow and steady.
"The firefly turned and flew back to the river," Uncle Tibur continued, his voice soft now, like water over stones. "He did not try to reach the stars again. Instead… he chose to burn as bright as he could, right where he stood. He let his light shine so strong it cut through the dark, so warm it chased away the cold."
Justin's face broke into a grin. "See? He didn't need to be a star to be important!"
Peter nodded vigorously. "Yeah! He was better right where he was!"
Uncle Tibur leaned back in his chair, his shoulders relaxing as if the story itself had lifted a weight from him. "And one night," he finished, his voice barely a whisper, "when a child wandered from his home and got lost near the riverbank—when the moon was hidden and the path was dark—it was the little firefly's light that led him safely back to his family."
The breeze moved through the doorway again, carrying with it the first cool breath of evening. No one spoke for a long moment. We just sat there, the three of us, soaking in the quiet and the warmth of the story.
Then a voice called out from the road outside—sharp and clear, carrying over the rustle of leaves.
"Justin! Peter! Come home this instant—dinner's on the table and it'll be cold if you're late again!"
They both groaned in unison, slumping against each other.
"Awwww, but we just got here!" Justin whined, pushing himself to his feet. "We'll come back tomorrow, Uncle—promise! You have to tell us what happens next!"
Peter waved as he scrambled after his friend. "And no skipping the good parts this time!"
They ran out the door without looking back, their laughter fading down the dirt road until all that was left was the sound of their footsteps and the quiet hum of the evening.
And then—
Silence.
The house felt suddenly vast, its walls stretching out around me, heavy with empty space.
I stood slowly, my bare feet cold on the mat. The air had shifted again—gone was the warmth of afternoon, replaced by a chill that seeped into my skin. Something inside me cracked, sharp and clean as breaking glass.
Because the moment they were gone—
I knew.
This was not real.
It was too warm, too perfect. Too untouched by loss or pain. The blurry faces, the way time moved slow as honey, the scent of earth that never faded—none of it was real.
My chest tightened until I could barely breathe, the pain sharp and familiar, the kind that came from knowing what was lost and wanting it back anyway.
I turned to Uncle Tibur. He was still sitting in his chair, watching me with that same warm smile. Alive. Breathing. His skin weathered by sun, his hands calloused from work. Here.
I didn't think. I crossed the room in three quick steps and wrapped my arms around him, holding on so tightly my knuckles ached. I buried my face against his shoulder, feeling the rough weave of his shirt against my cheek, breathing in the scent of woodsmoke and old paper that was so uniquely him.
"Mateo?" he asked gently, his hand coming up to rest on my back, warm and solid. "What's wrong, anak? Why are you crying?"
I hadn't realized tears were streaming down my face until they soaked into his shirt, hot and salty against my skin. My body shook with sobs I'd kept locked away for years, and the words came out strangled, broken.
"Why…" I gasped, my voice cracking. "Why do you have to die?! I saw it—I was there. You're gone. You're not here anymore!"
Silence hung in the air for a long moment. Then—
He laughed. Deep, full, and loud, the sound shaking his chest under my arms.
"Die?" he repeated, chuckling as he pulled back slightly to look at me, his hands resting on my shoulders. "Hahahaha! Mateo, what kind of nonsense is that? Look at me—do I look like a dead man?"
I froze, my hands still clutching his shirt. His eyes were warm, his skin was warm, his breath fanned against my face as he spoke.
"I am not going to die," he said, his voice calm and steady. "As you can see… I am alive."
I stared at him, my vision blurring with tears. "No," I whispered, my throat tight. "This is just a dream. You're not really here—you can't be."
His smile didn't fade, but something shifted in his eyes. The warmth didn't go away, but it deepened, became something older, heavier.
"No," he said, his voice quiet now, like stones settling in water. "This is not a dream."
The wind outside stopped. The cricket fell silent. The air in the room felt still as glass.
"You see me, right?" he asked, his thumb brushing gently over my cheek, wiping away a tear. "You feel my hands on your shoulders. You know my voice."
My breath caught in my throat.
"That means…"
His eyes held mine now, and they seemed to look through me—past my skin and bones, past the walls of this house, to something far beyond.
"That means you are getting close."
My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I thought it would burst. "What do you—"
"Mateo."
A new voice cut through the quiet—sharp, clear, and impossible to ignore.
"Mateo."
The world cracked.
The bamboo walls splintered like glass, shards of light and wood spiraling into nothingness. The wide blue sky shattered into a million pieces, and the smell of earth was swallowed whole by something sharp and sterile.
I gasped—a real gasp, ragged and harsh—and my eyes snapped open to a ceiling of stark white tiles. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a cold glow that made my skin prickle. Machines beeped in steady, mechanical rhythms, their sounds cutting through the silence like broken glass.
A familiar face hovered over me, framed by dark hair pushed back in a messy bun. Lena's eyes were red-rimmed, but they brightened the moment she saw me focus on her.
"Finally," she exhaled, a shaky laugh escaping her lips as she adjusted the IV line taped to the back of my hand. "You scared us half to death. One minute you're standing there in the Gate, and the next—boom—you drop like a stone."
I blinked slowly, my eyelids heavy as lead. The dream dissolved like mist on hot pavement, but its echoes clung to me: the smell of guava, the feel of dirt under my feet, the weight of Uncle Tibur's hands on my shoulders.
You are getting close.
Carlo stood near the window, his arms crossed over his chest, his jaw tight. Even from across the room, I could see the tension in his shoulders—the way he kept glancing at the monitor by my bed. When he noticed I was awake, he uncrossed his arms and leaned forward slightly.
"You've been out for almost a day," he said, his voice low but steady. "Doctors say your vitals are stable now, but they can't explain why you went under so hard."
My throat felt like sandpaper. I tried to speak, but only a rough whisper came out. Lena was already holding a cup of water to my lips, letting me sip slowly.
"Mana backlash," she muttered, more to herself than to us as she checked the tape on my arm. "That's the only thing that makes sense. But even then… you were gone. Not just unconscious—like your mind was somewhere else entirely. Did you… did you have a nightmare?"
I looked back up at the white ceiling, at the way the light reflected off its smooth surface. Everything here felt so solid—the cold sheets under my back, the plastic of the cup in my hand, the sharp smell of antiseptic in the air. But it also felt hollow, thin as paper compared to the world I'd just left.
"You wouldn't believe me," I said quietly.
Jae scoffed lightly. "Try us."
I turned my head slightly toward them.
Everything felt normal.
Too normal.
But my chest still carried the echo of that last sentence.
You are getting close.
Close to what?
And why did it feel like he wasn't talking about the dream—
But about something waiting for me beyond it?
I closed my eyes briefly.
The smell of earth lingered faintly in my memory.
And for the first time since entering that Gate—
I wasn't sure which world felt more real.