"Ashes of Crestfall: The Rise of Aaron San Agustin"

Morning came quietly, slipping over Crestfall in a gentle gold that softened the edges of nipa huts and rice paddies. By the time the roosters finished their ragged calls and the dogs quieted down, Aaron was already dressed in a clean dark shirt and jeans, standing by the wooden gate of Aunt Colleen's yard. His hands were tucked into his pockets, his gaze distant as if searching for something beyond the fields and distant hills.

Aunt Colleen stepped outside, wiping her hands on her apron. "You heading out now?"

"Yeah," he replied, his voice low and steady.

She nodded. "I packed some flowers for her. Marigolds and Roses. She always loved those."

He accepted the small woven basket she held out to him, the fragrance rising softly in the cool morning air. "Thank you."

"Take your time," she said, her voice trembling just slightly. "She's been waiting."

Aaron didn't answer. He stepped out onto the dirt road, each stride carrying him past waving neighbors, the smell of breakfast drifting from open windows. But today, his mind wasn't here—it was anchored somewhere deeper, somewhere older.

The cemetery lay on a small hill at the edge of Crestfall, shaded by towering mango trees whose leaves whispered with every breeze. He climbed the narrow path slowly, feeling the moist earth sink beneath his boots. When he reached his mother's grave, he stood still for a long moment, staring down at the simple concrete marker weathered by rain and years.

MARIA SAN AGUSTIN

Beloved Mother

1970 – 2015

Aaron knelt and placed the flowers at the base of the marker. The scent of marigold and roses filled the still air around him. For a while, he said nothing. Just sat there, letting memories flood in like an old river breaking through a dam.

He saw her standing by their kitchen fire, hair tied back with a faded ribbon, humming softly as she stirred rice porridge. He remembered how she used to tuck loose strands behind her ear with flour-dusted fingers and turn to smile at him, her eyes glowing with warmth despite the exhaustion etched into her face.

"Eat while it's hot, son," she'd say, placing the steaming bowl in front of him. "You need your strength."

He remembered sitting beside her at the old wooden table, the sun slanting through the bamboo walls, his small hands cradling the warm bowl. She would stroke his hair gently, her fingers calloused from washing laundry at the river, but her touch always tender.

Other memories rose like smoke curling around his chest. He saw his father, tall and broad-shouldered, walking into their yard carrying a basket of tilapia caught from the river. His mother's laughter echoing as she took it from him, her eyes bright with love.

"Dad's strong, isn't he?" she'd whisper to Aaron, winking at him as his father washed his hands by the pump. "But don't tell him I said that."

And at night, when the wind whistled through their nipa walls, he remembered lying curled beside them, his father's deep voice humming an old folk song while his mother rubbed his back in slow, sleepy circles. For a while, in those brief years, their family felt whole. Safe. Happy.

But happiness, he knew, was always fleeting.

His father left when Aaron was only seven. No explanation. No note. Just an emptiness in the doorway that never closed, no matter how many times his mother prayed for his return. And though she never spoke a bitter word about him, Aaron saw the silent sadness that lingered in her eyes every morning she rose before dawn to sell vegetables in the market.

"Dad loves you," she'd say whenever he asked. "He just… had to go."

But Aaron wasn't a child anymore. He knelt there now, staring at her grave, wondering:

Where are you, Father?

Did you ever think about us?

About her?

His chest tightened painfully. A quiet part of him wished he could hate his father completely, erase any softness from the memories. But he couldn't. Because even now, broken as those memories were, they were all he had left of his family.

Aaron leaned forward, resting his palm against the cool stone. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice catching in his throat. "For taking so long to come back. For not being able to protect you."

The morning breeze rustled the mango leaves above him, scattering dappled light across the grave. He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun on his skin, imagining it was her hand, her quiet blessing.

"I'm going to find out what happened," he murmured, his words trembling with quiet promise. "I don't care how long it takes. I won't let your death be forgotten."

He stayed there until the sun climbed higher in the sky and the cicadas began their droning chorus. Eventually, he rose, brushing the dirt from his jeans. He glanced back at her grave one last time, his gaze steady and filled with a silent resolve.

And as he walked back down the hill toward Crestfall, each step felt heavier—but also more certain. Because the boy who once ran barefoot through these fields was gone.

Only the man remained.

And he was ready to unearth every shadow that buried her truth.