CHAPTER 1: THE BEGINNINGS

This script was originally typewritten on Black Saturday - April 2, 1994, in Sampaloc, Manila.

Home Alone on a Black Saturday

Today is a black Saturday and while all the boarders went home to their families in the provinces to spend the long holiday or shall I say, holy days, I am all alone here in the boarding house. However, I feel like I have to do something to cover up my loneliness. I therefore have to spend this moment trying to squeeze out some memories of the past from the corners of my mind. I'm now 25 years old, and those early days seem so far away. But there’s no harm in trying to remember. Sometimes, we find beauty in reflection. Maybe this is just my way of turning memories into art, a personal form of storytelling. Well, to begin with:

(a photo of me taken in Sampaloc, Manila in 1994 - top right)

My Childhood Backdrop

I grew up in a place where childhood dreams and desires were never out of reach. My neighborhood offered an atmosphere perfect for adventure, a rural setting that seemed to bring every childhood fantasy to life. The open fields, the natural surroundings, and the quiet simplicity of provincial life gave me a kind of freedom that children today rarely experience. These memories still visit me, like misty flashbacks in my quiet reflections or dreams, pulling me back to a time when my imagination roamed wild and free.

Back then, our nights were colored by tales of the supernatural. Ghost stories, myths of enchanted beings, tales of war, and mysterious happenings weren’t just entertainment, they were a part of our lives. We believed them with all our hearts. I remember huddling with my siblings, listening in awe to our elders as they spun stories so vivid, it felt like we were watching them unfold like films in front of our young, wide eyes.

My childhood existed in a time when people still held strong beliefs in folklores, superstitions, and tales passed down through generations. Modern thinking was just beginning to spread.

Back then, everyone knew everyone. There were no locked gates, no “No Trespassing” signs. Every open space was a playground.

We had a favorite spot, a private property, technically, but we treated it like our own. It was surrounded by coconut trees, banana plants, and lush greenery. The soft, sandy soil was perfect for our games. We played everything: siatong, dakup-dakop, tigso, bagol, takyan, bitok-bitok, kasing, sabong kaka, basketball, tubig-tubig, luthang, jolen, litiklitik, hantak, taksi, tansan, sagudsud, you name it.

Basketball was my passion. I started with a small rubber ball, and as I grew older, so did the size of my ball and my skill. I remember being the ball captain of our mini-player basketball team for an inter-barangay tournament. We won every game. In the finals, I hit the winning shot in the last few seconds. Our team erupted in cheers. That was the last tournament that I participated though. Because few months later, we moved to a far-flung place.

We also lived through Martial Law under President Marcos. Every night, a siren signaled curfew time. When it sounded, we’d rush home to avoid the patrolling military. It was a serious time, but even then, childhood joy wasn’t entirely lost. We found happiness in the smallest things.

Holiday Tradition That Lit Up My Childhood

On Christmas Eve, we always celebrated with a joyful Noche Buena, a tradition where the whole family stayed awake until midnight to share a special meal together. Our dining table would be filled with delicious dishes, carefully prepared and beautifully arranged. Mama Asyon cooked the best food, but we often ordered specialties like puto and biko (rice cakes) from Mama Tancing, my father’s sister, who was known for her skill in traditional cooking.

A week later, we did it all over again for Media Noche on New Year’s Eve. The celebration was quite similar, but this time, the focus was on fruits, especially round ones. As part of a long-standing Filipino belief, round fruits were thought to attract prosperity, symbolizing coins and wealth for the year ahead. Some people even wore polka-dotted clothes, hoping the round patterns would invite good fortune.

As the clock neared midnight on New Year’s Eve, the air would begin to throb with sound. The sharp, explosive cracks of firecrackers echoed in every direction, accompanied by the metallic banging of pots and pans. We even had our own lantaka, a homemade bamboo cannon that let out a thunderous boom. Kids, including me, would run around blowing plastic trumpets, adding to the festive chaos. On the streets, tartanillas (horse-drawn carriages) clattered by, dragging tin cans that rattled as they rolled. We then jumped as high as we could, it would make us grow taller in the years to come.

It was noisy, exciting, and full of energy, but most of all, it was magical. These traditions, loud and lively as they were, marked the happiest moments of my childhood days.

Growing up in Pardo

Pardo is the name of the place where I spent most of my childhood days. From the late 1960s to the early 1980s, Pardo became a significant part of my childhood. Though it was about 10 kilometers from the city proper, life there was slow, simple, and deeply rooted in folk traditions and beliefs. It had an atmosphere that allowed children to roam freely and play without worry. Everyone seemed to know everyone, no matter how far apart you lived, people were still considered neighbors.

In either direction, just a few miles of walking would lead you to the mountains or the sea. I remember spending days with other kids searching for spiders in the hills, or heading out to the sea to gather clams, shrimps, small fishes, and crabs. The path to the mountains was lined with coconut trees, fruit-bearing trees, and the occasional scattered house. Toward the sea, you’d pass through rice fields, banana groves, more coconut trees, and mangroves that stood guard between the paddies and the brackish banks of the river.

During high tide, the breeze would pick up, blowing steadily and carrying with it the rustling of leaves and the flutter of wild birds, butterflies, dragonflies, bees, and other insects. Sometimes, I would accompany my father to fly kites in open fields, or we’d go fishing together on his boat during his days off. Those moments were pure magic, a carefree blend of joy and contentment, as if I were under the spell of nature itself. The fresh scent of damp earth mixed with the salty air from the sea was like a healing balm to my young soul. It always made me feel alive and happy.

Scenes like those were once common all over the Philippines, and I consider myself lucky to have experienced them in Pardo during the 1970s. But today, those landscapes have vanished. Where wide fields and open shorelines once lay, now stand clusters of houses, some areas have even turned into urban slums.

Back then, high tide meant swimming among the mangroves and along the riverbanks. At low tide, we’d venture into the wide, exposed seabed to gather shells, shrimps, crabs, and tiny fish. Families would often come out for picnics, enjoying what the sea generously offered. They brought cooked food and shared meals together. I usually had corn grits with fermented fish. Sometimes, I’d even rub the slimy surface off a jellyfish using sand, then washed it in salty sea water before soaking it in vinegar, it was surprisingly delicious!

But everything changed in the 1990s. The sea was reclaimed, and what was once an open, bountiful coastline became land extensions, now known as the South Road Properties (SRP).

My Maternal Roots: The Colina Family of Cebu

My mother, Asuncion (photo on the left), is the daughter of Joaquina Clarus Colina, affectionately called Lola Aqui, who was originally from Talamban, Cebu City. Her husband, Domingo Colina, hailed from Subangdaku, Mandaue City. Domingo passed away earlier than Joaquina, who herself died in June 1986, shortly after I graduated from high school.

right side, a photo of my mother, circa 1950s

Mama had several siblings: Rose (who passed away many years ago from breast cancer in Manila), Erlinda (her younger sister), Demetrio (the eldest), Nilo, Eduardo, and Nestor.

Before marrying my father, she lived with her aunt Anacleta (Lola Cleta, who also passed away in the U.S.) and her uncle Anastacio Colina (also long deceased) in Mabolo, Cebu City.

My Father's Lineage: The Ybiernas of Pardo

On the other hand, my father, Artemio Reponte Ybiernas Sr., was the son of Rosa Reponte Ybiernas and Ireneo Ybiernas, both of whom were from Inayawan, Pardo, Cebu City, and are now deceased. Pardo is located roughly 15 kilometers from Mabolo.

left side, a photo of my father, circa 1950s

The patriarch of the Ybiernas clan in Cebu can be traced back to my great-grandfather, Rufino Ybiernas, fondly called “Tatay Pinoy.” I remember my father mentioning that name. According to family stories, he originally came from Guimaras Island or possibly Iloilo City. However, we never learned who his relatives were from that part of the Philippines. Still, our ancestral relatives used to tell us that they were often visited by people bearing the Ybiernas surname from Iloilo and Panay Island, who introduced themselves as relatives.

Tatay Pinoy married Matea Gaviola, from Inayawan, Pardo. They had 7 sons namely, Cornelio, Ireneo (my grandfather), Tranquilino, Luis, Sergio, Jose, and Teofilo (I still remember him and we fondly called him "Tatay Filo"). According to my father, one of his uncles migrated to the U.S.

above right photo, at a wake, tatay Pinoy with his children and grand children
circa 1940's

If my memory serves me right, my parents were married around the year 1962 at St. Joseph Parish Church in Mabolo, Cebu City. I cannot describe what transpired then, but I’ve seen the photos taken during that event. That’s all I have to hold on to from that day.

Mama, whom family and friends fondly called Asion, was working at the time at Sen Hiap Heng, a popular Chinese-owned department store during her time in the downtown Cebu City. My father, Temyong, was a soldier serving under the Philippine Constabulary.

The Day I Came into the World

In the meanwhile, at the Cebu Maternity House, the medical staff took care of my mother as she prepared to give birth. At exactly 1:40 PM, a 7-pound baby boy let out his first cry, echoing through the delivery room. That baby was named Ulysses, which means "the angry one" in the dictionary of names, but also symbolizes greatness in Greek mythology. I was the fourth child, following May, Glenn, and Artemio Jr.

Our Type of Home

Once Mama regained her strength, we returned to our home at 40-D F. Jaca Street, Kabulihan, Pardo, Cebu City. We rented an old house, more or less about a century old, which was divided into three sections, each fit for a family.

The upper floor was occupied by Mana Awang and her relatives, while the ground floor was split into two units. Ours had five rooms, including a kitchen, living room, dining area, and three bedrooms. It was a place full of character and history. Mana Awang owned the house.

Early Memories on the Outside World

As I began to learn how to walk, my father often carried me in his arms and brought me outside. I vaguely remember those moments, his arms strong and sure, the lush greenery of coconut trees and banana plants around us, the fresh air, and the golden glow of morning and afternoon sun. For a small, innocent child, those moments were like seeing the world in its purest form.

As we walked along footpaths, I would ask the most innocent of questions, questions my father often answered playfully, only for me to realize years later that most of them were made up.

A Neighborhood's Affection

People in the neighborhood adored me, as people often do with babies. They would pinch my chubby cheeks, and my mother would gently scold them: "Ayaw pag pislita og kusog ang aping, mudako ang nawong sa bata!" (“Don’t press his cheeks too hard, or his face will get bigger!”)

One of the most memorable people from my early childhood was a teenage girl named Mery. She was pretty, warm, and very fond of me. She would visit our home just to hug and kiss me, playing with me and encouraging my first words. She was like a big sister and dear friend as I grew.

One evening, there was a bayle, a barrio dance, something like the modern-day disco. The area was enclosed with bamboo fencing, lit up, and filled with music. The single ladies sat in rows, waiting for their partners to invite them to the dance floor. Each man would pay a small fee to dance with the lady of his choice for a song or two.

My guardian-aunt, Mama Presing, brought me along. As I peered through the bamboo slats, curious but too shy to go in, Mery spotted me. She pulled me from the crowd and led me to the dance floor. I didn’t dance. I was far too shy, but I still remember the warmth of that moment and the joy on her face.

My friend - Florecin

I grew up in a rural environment, so I was constantly in direct contact with nature. I loved playing in the bushes. One day, while walking along a path, I found a bug clinging to a wild shrub. I was fascinated by it. I gently picked it up and placed it in a small hole in the cemented floor, where I thought it would be safe. I covered it with leaves to protect it. Every day, I would visit and talk to it for a week, calling it by name until it was gone. I named it “Florecin.”

Innocence and Laughter in the Shanty

One day, while playing in our front yard, I heard a group of older kids calling my name. I was around six years old at the time. They were gathered inside a small, abandoned shanty just a few meters across from our house. They also called over my neighbor and playmate and asked her to come with me.

Curious and unaware, we both went. Inside one of the tiny rooms, the kids burst into laughter. Then they told us to cling to each other while climbing onto a wooden bar. As we hung there, they told us to hug and even kiss each other. And so we did, without the slightest idea of what it all meant. I just laughed along with them, not understanding what I was doing. To me, it was just another silly game.

The day my feet took me too far

When I was around five years old, I convinced my cousin who was about seven, to go hunting for spiders with me along the highway. We carried a long stick to reach the spiders on electric wires and tree branches. We wandered through the side streets, not realizing how far we had gone. Hours later, we found ourselves near Cebu City Medical Center, almost 10 kilometers away from home!

My cousin started getting nervous and kept telling me we should head back. But I ignored him, too caught up in the excitement of the adventure. When we finally returned home, my aunt, Tiya Erling, had been frantically looking for him. I ended up getting a good scolding for dragging him off without permission.

Another similar incident happened when I was about six. It was fiesta day in Inayawan, Pardo. I overheard Mama and Papa talking about going to a relative’s house to celebrate. Unfortunately, I fell asleep and was left behind. When I woke up and realized they had already gone, I didn’t hesitate. I left the house on my own and started walking along F. Jaca Street, not even knowing exactly which house they went to.

I passed jeepneys, cars, tartanillas (horse-drawn carriages), and a stream of people all headed toward Inayawan. After walking for over an hour, I reached a chapel crowded with people and vendors. I figured I had arrived, but I still didn’t know where my family was. As it started to get dark, fear crept in. I turned back and retraced my steps.

When I got to I. Tabura Street, I decided to head toward the public market, hoping someone familiar would be there. That’s where I saw Mama Tancing, my father’s sister. She looked surprised and asked what I was doing there alone as dusk settled in. She gently told me to go home right away.

Haunted by Dreams: A Child Early Nightmares

As a young, innocent boy, I was often mystified and sometimes terrified by my early dreams. I dreamed a lot, and many of those dreams were strange, even nightmarish. One that stuck with me happened in what seemed like early morning. In the dream, Papa was carrying me in his arms inside a small hut that looked like a toilet. Suddenly, I saw a rat. Then, in a terrifying turn, the rat transformed into a monkey, and eventually into a huge ape. Its sharp, piercing eyes and hairy face sent chills down my spine. I remember waking up frightened, wondering how I could imagine something I had never even seen before.

At our church in Pardo, there was a large statue of Sto. Tomas de Villanueva, standing prominently in front of the altar. I once dreamed that the saint had come alive. I saw his image walking toward me through the coconut tree, lined pathway in front of our house. At first, he appeared only as a human silhouette, but then, to my horror, he began chasing me into the house. That dream repeated a few times, once with the image of Sto. Niño in place of Sto. Tomas.

Signs and Symbolisms

At that age, I couldn’t understand why I was dreaming about such odd and sometimes frightening things, saints, witches, animals transforming into monsters.

But later in life, during my time in the San Agustin Seminary, I came to realize something. Sto. Tomas de Villanueva is, in fact, a saint of the Order of St. Augustine, and the image of Sto. Niño is also deeply tied to the Augustinian Fathers, like the one enshrined in the Basilica Minore del Sto. Nino in Cebu City. Maybe those dreams were a kind of foreshadowing, hints that one day I would find myself in the Order of St. Augustine, even if only for a time. But as life would have it, things changed.

Today, I live a simple, secular life, just an ordinary man in the everyday world.

Another dream left an even deeper impression on me. I was still a small child when I dreamt of the crucified Christ. We had a cross displayed on our home altar, but in my dream, the cross was enormous, mounted on a wall, towering above me. What struck me the most was the gaze of Jesus, powerful, commanding, yet solemn. It was as if He was looking straight into my soul. That dream filled me with awe and fear.

The Child and the Shadow Within

As I got older, I began to question myself. Was there something dark or bad inside me? I sometimes did things I knew were wrong, yet I took pleasure in them. I had a false sense of superiority, even believing at times that we were better off than others. One example still makes me feel ashamed. There was this poor boy named Gaudioso who passed by our house on his way to school. I would mock him and throw stones at him just because he looked poor with plenty of skin sores. I acted arrogantly, feeling untouchable. But the moment Gaudioso showed even a hint of standing up for himself, I would panic and run back inside our house, terrified. I was bold only until I was confronted and then, I became a coward.

Bizarre and Strange Happenings

Aside from dreams, I also witnessed some mysterious things as a child. One afternoon, I was alone in the living room, playing quietly by myself. I pretended to be a driver, using a fallen chair as a steering wheel. I was fully engrossed in my make-believe world when, out of nowhere, someone slapped the back of my head very hard. I immediately turned around, startled. I knew I was alone. Mama was in the kitchen, and no one else was supposed to be home. But I clearly heard someone running through the three connecting rooms, from one to the next, all the way to the last room. I searched every corner, even inside cabinets. But no one was there. I waited, hoping whoever it was would reveal themselves, but no one ever did. Later on, all my other siblings came in from the outside of the house. To this day, I still don’t know who or what it was. I only hoped, at the time, that it was human.

A Ghostly Shadow

One dark night stands out vividly. There was a brownout, and we all gathered on our porch to share ghost stories. As we spoke, we suddenly heard a rattling at the wooden, grilled front door. We thought someone was outside. I peeked out, and there it was a shadow, clearly forming a human silhouette. I gasped and shouted that I had seen a ghost. To this day, I still wonder: was it real, or just a figment of my overactive imagination? But as a child, everything felt real. And if the elders said something was true, I believed it wholeheartedly.

The Neighborhood Witch

There was also a woman in our neighborhood who people whispered was a witch. Her eyes were red and terrifying, so were her son’s. When she walked by our house, we children would mischievously shout, “Balen Ongo!” (Balen, the witch!). She always walked quickly, barely looking anyone in the eye. But one time, when I stared at her closely, I noticed her eyes were oddly red. What made things even stranger was that her son seemed to have the same eerie traits. Looking back, it may have been cruel, but that was how we coped with things we didn’t understand.

Back then, people believed that an "ongo" possessed supernatural powers. According to stories, an ongo could transform into different animals, most commonly a pig. But this wasn’t an ordinary pig. This one wore wooden sandals, which locals referred to as “anay nga nagbakya.” That sound of wooden clogs in the night became something to fear.

An "Ongo" is also said to have companions. One of them is a creature of the night called the Sigbin, a strange animal that supposedly looked like a kangaroo but moved differently, almost hauntingly.

Another was a bird known as the Kikik, a black night bird named after the chilling “kikik” sound it made as it flew in the darkness. Both were said to appear only at night, and many folks swore they had encountered them. I, however, never saw any of them myself, only the stories remain with me.

Back in the 70s, especially during brownouts, it was common for boys and girls to gather around under the moonlight. We’d sit outside and listen as the elders told stories, tales of the war, of lost souls, and of mysterious beings like the "ongo" and other supernatural beings. Those stories weren’t just entertainment. They were part of our growing up, part of the magic and mystery of my childhood.

The Doppleganger

Another strange memory lingers in my mind. One sunny afternoon, I asked my father if I could go with him to the market. He said no and went alone. I stayed home as he told me to. But when he returned, he was furious. He accused me of disappearing from my aunt’s house, he claimed he had left me there before heading to the market. My aunt had even searched for me, worried. But all along, I was just in the house and never had left. To this day, I wonder: did he see my double? There’s a paranormal term for that, isn’t there? He must be my doppelganger. I must have been around five or six years old at that time.

The Doppleganger Again?

Maybe that explains the confusion I always felt as a child whenever my mom would tell our relatives and visitors that I was a lucky kid. She loved to share a story about how my older brother and sister supposedly won a fortune at a fiesta carnival, all because of me. My brother and sister told her so and showed to her their winnings. Mama would proudly say that thanks to my presence, they always went home with handfuls of coins from the carnival games.

But I never said anything when she told that story. I don’t remember ever going with them. As the younger brother, I was often left behind. My older siblings rarely took me along. They said I was just a kid and would only get in the way. That’s probably why I was always puzzled by my mom’s tale. How could she say those things so convincingly, as if they really happened?

There was even a time when my father believed her. He once brought me to the carnival and asked me to choose a number for a bet. He was hopeful, trusting that "luck" I was said to have. But he didn’t win much, maybe few times and just once in the jumping horse game. Looking back, I can’t help but laugh. Maybe my brother and sister were just really good at the games… or maybe they were with my doppelganger instead.

Voices in the Kitchen

There were people in the kitchen in the middle of the night.

As a young child, I had the freedom to sleep wherever I wanted. One night, I chose to sleep in the room with Papa, which was right next to the kitchen. Sometime past midnight, I was suddenly awakened by the sound of voices lively chatter, as if there was a gathering or a celebration going on.

The noise puzzled me. How could there be so many people in the kitchen at that hour? It sounded like a fiesta. Curious and a bit uneasy, I quietly moved closer and peeked through a small hole in the wall to see what was happening.

To my surprise, the kitchen was completely dark. There was no one there.

I lay back down, confused. Maybe I was just imagining things. Maybe I was dreaming with my eyes open. But the sounds were so vivid, so real. Even now, I still wonder, was it just a child’s imagination, or something else entirely?

The Finger Beneath the Floor

One stormy night, a sharp finger-like object rose from beneath the floor of the room where I was sleeping.

It happened in the last room of the house, the third one, where we used to sleep on a mat laid out over wooden slats. We had a mosquito net hung over us, and the floor was slightly elevated, about a meter above the ground. The wooden slats had small finger-sized gaps between them, maybe to help with air circulation, or simply as a way to save on wood.

That night, the heavy rain outside lulled me into a deep, peaceful sleep. But then, I was suddenly jolted awake by a loud thud on the wall just below the window, right beside where I lay. It felt like something massive had slammed into the house. I knew it was windy outside, but this didn’t feel like just the wind. It was as if a winged creature had crashed into the side of our home and then slid down, crawling beneath the house, right under the floor where I was sleeping.

And then it happened.

A sharp, pointed thing like a finger rose up through the mat beside me. I panicked. Without making a sound, I quickly turned to my side and stacked pillows between me and the floor, hoping to block whatever it was.

Was it my imagination? A trick of the stormy night? Or something darker, something real? I never found out. But even now, I can still remember that strange sensation that mix of fear and wonder only a child could feel.

Whispers at Dawn

There was this sweet old woman who was fond of me, "Mama Diyang", that's how I called her. She was the wife of my father’s uncle, "Tatay Filo", who lived about a kilometer away from our house, near the public market. Every time I passed by her home, she would warmly reach out her hand and press it gently against my forehead, the traditional bless that elders gave to children. She always smiled, spoke kindly, and often pinched my cheeks in that affectionate way old folks do. Before I left, she would slip a few coins into my hand.

It was sometime around the 1970s, at dawn, when something stirred me from my sleep. I couldn’t explain it, but I suddenly felt a deep certainty, Mama Diyang had passed away. It was more than just a thought; it felt real. After a moment, I drifted back to sleep.

In the morning, my mother confirmed what I already somehow knew: Mama Diyang had died at dawn.

The Trumpet-like sound in the middle of the night

I was awakened in the middle of the night by a strange, trumpet-like sound, something that didn’t sound human at all.

Everyone in the house was fast asleep. Then I heard the front door at the porch shake, followed by that eerie noise, like a creature blowing through a trumpet. It was loud and unsettling. My mother had always stacked several chairs behind that door as a makeshift alarm, if someone tried to get in, the chairs would fall and make enough noise to wake us.

That night, I was certain I heard them crashing down. The clatter echoed in my half-asleep mind. But when morning came, I was surprised to see the chairs still neatly in place, untouched. Nothing seemed out of order, except for one small detail: the chain on the grilled door had been moved up one notch higher.

This didn’t just happen once. I experienced it a few times, always during the quietest hours of the night. Out of curiosity, I asked my younger brother if he ever heard anything like it. To my surprise, he had. He described it just as I remembered it.

What was it? A trick of the mind? A restless dream? Or something else beyond explanation?

To this day, I still don’t know. But the memory lingers, mysterious and unresolved.

The Male Vampire in the Ricefields

Years later, when I was in Grade 6, another chilling encounter occurred. After school, I had lunch at home and walked to the rice fields nearby with my net. It was the perfect season for catching small fish in the irrigation streams. The fields stretched endlessly, bordered by flowering plants and dotted with scarecrows. Birds chirped, butterflies danced, and dragonflies skimmed the water’s surface. I saw no one else, except an old, stooped man by the kangkong patch. Something about him gave me chills. He moved slowly, always hunched, dipping his hands in water and glancing at me now and then. When he finally looked up, his eyes pierced through me and he had a fang. Just one, but long and sharp. My heart pounded. At first, I told myself it wasn’t real. But as he came closer, about three meters away, I ran. I ran as fast as I could, never daring to look back.

Looking back

As I sit here on this quiet Black Saturday, far from the vibrant world of my childhood, I realize that what began as an attempt to ease my loneliness has turned into something far more meaningful. These recollections, of games in the fields, ghost stories under moonlit skies, the warmth of family traditions, and even the shadows that once frightened me, are not just fragments of the past. They are the building blocks of who I am.

Though the landscapes have changed and many of the people are gone, their voices still echo in my memory. In the stillness of solitude, I have found a kind of homecoming, a return to the boy I once was, wide-eyed and full of wonder. And in writing these memories down, I’ve come to understand that our pasts never truly leave us. They live on in the stories we tell, in the lessons they carry, and in the quiet strength they give us when we need them most.

This is not just the beginning of my story. It is a reminder that no matter how far we go, the child in us still lives, curious, afraid, joyful, and deeply human. And perhaps, that is enough.

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