The second quarter had begun, and the workshop at Jose Rizal High School was humming once again. The drills screamed like tiny jets, wires lay in colorful coils, and the smell of solder clung to the air like nostalgia.
Sir Emman had returned to his full strength, and the students could feel it. His energy was calmer now—measured, grounded—but his passion? Still a blazing current.
What changed most wasn't in the lesson plans or modules.
It was something new on the wall.
The Idea Sparked
It came to Emman one weekend while clearing old boxes from the storage shelf. Inside one was a dusty Manila folder labeled "Batch 2017 – Photos".
He pulled them out. Faded prints of students in helmets wiring practice boards, laughing during group projects, and holding mock certificates after their final exams.
He smiled. Then paused.
"Why have I kept all these hidden?"
His eyes scanned the room. The walls were functional, but cold—just laminated safety rules, a fire exit map, and a few scattered posters from TESDA.
He reached for his phone and texted Mrs. De Jesus:
Sir Emman: Ma'am, would you approve if I used part of the workshop wall for a "Legacy Panel"?
Mrs. De Jesus: If it inspires and honors your students, I'll even provide the nails. Go for it.
The Making of the Legacy Panel
On Monday, the students arrived to see Sir Emman on a ladder, hammer in hand, mounting an old electrical panel—gutted and cleaned—onto the wall near the door.
"What's that for, Sir?" Dino asked.
"This," Emman replied, "is where we remember those who came before you—and make space for your story, too."
He pinned up the first photo: Bryan, grinning beside a fully lit switchboard.
Next: Marco, mid-project, wire clenched in his teeth, hair in chaos.
Each photo had a short handwritten label:
"Batch 2021 – Bryan: Licensed Practitioner, Returned to Mentor."
"Batch 2020 – Marco: The Fastest Troubleshooter."
By the end of the week, there were eight photos, a growing map of stories, lined neatly above the words stenciled in black paint:
"We don't just wire circuits—we light futures."
The Students' Reaction
Something changed in the room.
The students began asking questions about the people on the wall.
"Sir, was Carina the one who built the solar garden light prototype?"
"Yes," Emman nodded. "She failed her first assessment, but she stayed late every day after that. Ended up winning a regional tech fair."
The stories gave more than context.
They gave hope.
Because suddenly, the room wasn't just about screwdrivers and sockets.
It was about possibility.
They weren't just students anymore. They were part of a lineage.
A Visit from the Past
One rainy Thursday afternoon, just before dismissal, the workshop door creaked open.
Standing there, umbrella dripping and cheeks flushed, was Carina.
The class gasped as Emman looked up from the demo table.
"Sir," Carina said with a grin, "You didn't tell me I was famous."
She nodded toward her photo, now mounted proudly on the Legacy Panel.
The class clapped as she stepped inside.
"I'm on break from my college internship," she explained. "I came by to say thanks—and also to see if I can borrow your soldering iron again. Some things don't change."
Emman handed her the tool, no words needed.
The students gathered around her, full of questions, hungry to hear from one of their own.
The Circuit That Connects Generations
That evening, after the last student left, Emman stood before the Legacy Panel and turned off the main lights—leaving only the photos softly lit by the small LED strip he had installed above the frame.
He traced each name with his eyes, thinking not just of who they were, but of who they had become.
And then, in the blank space below the last row, he placed a small label:
Reserved: Batch 2025
"Your story belongs here."
"In this room, we solder wires. But more than that—we solder courage, dreams, and the belief that every spark can be guided into a light."
– Sir Emman, Reflection Journal