"How are you?" Vince asked suddenly.
Thalia, quietly sipping milk and gazing out at the scenery, replied softly, "I'm okay."
Vince watched her for a moment, hesitant. Should I tell her what happened last night? He debated with himself. The events had been close—too close. Chesca and Ericka had almost gotten into serious trouble, and it was only by sheer luck that they were seen and stopped in time.
He placed his coffee on the table, gently blowing on it before taking a sip.
"Yesterday..." he began, his voice trailing as he prepared to explain.
Thalia turned her full attention to him, sensing the weight behind his words.
"Chesca and Ericka... they nearly got into trouble."
Her brows furrowed. "Wait—did you say Ericka and Chesca?"
Vince nodded solemnly.
"They met?"
He nodded again.
"Why?"
"They nearly crossed paths yesterday, and to make matters worse, the boss's son was there," Vince said, taking another sip of his coffee, its bitter warmth grounding him.
Thalia's milk sat forgotten as concern clouded her face.
"Where did they go?" she asked quietly.
Vince sighed, already regretting that he'd said too much.
"They're just resting for now. In that hut—you know the place," he reminded her.
She nodded, still processing the information.
"Ericka doesn't know Chesca's true identity yet, Thalia," he added.
Thalia didn't respond. The weight of that truth—what it meant for Ericka, for Chesca, for all of them—was heavy on her shoulders.
Then Vince asked the question she hadn't dared to ask herself:
"If you, Chesca, and Ericka all meet—can you face them, Thalia?"
She couldn't answer immediately. The thought tangled her in silence.
"I know Ericka is seeking justice for what happened to Jasmin," she finally said. "I want to help them."
"Help them how?" Vince pressed gently.
"Brother Felix once said, 'Destiny unfolds whether we want it to or not. It cannot be stopped.'"
Thalia looked straight at him now. Her voice was calm, but her eyes were clouded with sorrow.
"I will do everything I can to help them. We need to understand the events that tied our fates together."
Vince listened quietly. He admired her open-mindedness, but at the same time, it terrified him. The deeper she dug into the truth, the closer she came to danger.
Still, there was something unwavering in her voice. Something determined.
We Blancos and Tejeros really are too stubborn for our own good, Vince thought. Just like Felix—always searching, always questioning.
It was true: this generation moved differently. Once they made a choice, they pursued it relentlessly.
He drained the last of his coffee and reached out to ruffle his cousin's hair.
"After this, go inside and rest. Remember—don't rush destiny. Wait for the right time. I know you want to see them, especially Chesca, but please—be careful. Always be careful."
With that, he stood and returned inside the house.
His sibling was cooking in the kitchen. He smiled and slipped away to his room, seeking rest—but peace wouldn't come.
The events of the previous night lingered. So many moving parts. So many risks.
Then came another thought—Jenny, Thalia's sister, was traveling to the past.
The truth would eventually be revealed. And when it did, things would never be the same again.
He sighed—and then it hit.
His ability activated.
Suddenly, he was standing in a crowded place. Protesters filled the area in front of the municipal building. Placards rose like a wave. Voices screamed for justice and equality. He couldn't make out their faces, and their shouts blurred into a deafening roar.
But slowly, the sound cleared.
They were chanting for justice—for truth.
Then a loud explosion shook the ground.
Chaos erupted.
Bodies fell. Blood spilled. He saw a corpse torn apart—organs exposed to the open air.
The scene shifted.
Now he stood in a quiet place. Men in barongs gathered.
"Is it done?" a man dressed in black asked coldly.
One of them nodded.
Vince's chest tightened. He recognized the bomber.
"It'll be easier to convince the people now," the man said with a sinister smile, handing over a thick envelope. Vince knew what was inside.
And then—he woke up. Back in his room.
He pressed his forehead, breath heavy. The dream—no, the vision—was a warning. It would happen soon. He was certain of it. He had to be ready.
The eyes that once watched them were still watching.
Sleep had fled him.
He got up, walked outside, and lit a cigarette. The world was still and quiet.
As he exhaled a trail of smoke into the night air, one thought lingered.
The past is not done with us yet.