Hello, Neighbor

Chapter 11: Return Points

I looked down. "I'm still choosing."

"No," she said gently. "You already chose. The day you stayed. The day you didn't run."

I thought of the sampaguita pouch. Of the dream. Of Redmond's fading shape. Of the scar. Of the silence that had started speaking to me in strange ways.

"I don't understand it," I said. Still trying to figure out her riddles and puzzles.

"You're not meant to. Not yet. Understanding is for endings. And you're still in the middle."

She moved to a wooden cabinet and brought out something wrapped in faded newspaper.

"This belonged to your grandmother," she said. "She told me to give it to you only if the scent returned."

I held my breath as I unwrapped it. Returned?

Inside was a small, hand-stitched journal. The cover was made of repurposed leather, and the initials A.S.M. were pressed faintly into it.

Aurora Salvadora Mondelez.

My grandmother.

I opened the first page. It was blank.

The second page read:

"There is a line between real and imagined. I've lived on it so long, I no longer see the difference."

I closed the journal, fingers trembling.

"She saw them too," I whispered.

Aling Matet nodded. "More than saw. She tried to map the cracks."

"And did she succeed?"

"She disappeared for three days once. When she came back, her hair had turned completely white. She never told us what she saw—but she smiled like someone who had loved something they could never hold."

I didn't know what to say.

So I said nothing.

Outside, the rain had stopped. Children's voices echoed in the distance. Someone was lighting fireworks early for the fiesta. The world looked exactly the same.

And yet everything had changed.

"Returned..." I trailed off.

She wiped her hands on her apron as if readying herself in the upcoming long storytelling.

"You, Arin, have not experienced this the first time. You crossed worlds, years ago."

Before I could form an answer, the curtains to the kusina were pulled open, letting in light—and noise. Aling Matet's children, still in their basketball liga uniforms, had just returned. Laughter and the sound of sneakers on tile filled the space.

The moment broke, but the weight of her words lingered.

I stayed just long enough to accept a bowl of soup I couldn't bring myself to touch, to smile politely at stories I didn't really hear, to promise I'd return before the week ended. Aling Matet didn't press me further. She just watched me go like someone who knew the exact moment a thread begins to unravel.

That weekend snapped forward—then, fiesta.

The whole barrio swelled with color and noise.

By noon, every house had streamers strung from their rooftops, paper lanterns swayed on wires like low-hanging stars, and kids darted between legs with sticky hands and noise-makers shaped like fish. Sawsawan dripped down styrofoam plates. Smoke from inihaw clung to my clothes. Someone blasted videoke near the basketball court—"Bakit pa ba," then "My Heart Will Go On" in quick succession.