Cubao hadn't changed.
Rain tapped down the corrugated roofs, pooling in potholes that had outlived three mayors. Jeepneys rolled by with the same paint, the same slogans, the same laughter between traffic. Somewhere under the bridge, a basketball bounced — the same rhythm as before, dull and steady, like the city's heartbeat refusing to fade.
Aling Bebang's Eatery was still open.
Not because business was good — but because closing it would feel like the world finally giving up. The sign flickered, half the bulbs dead. The smell of garlic oil, smoke, and rain filled the narrow street.
Inside, the tables were mismatched, the fans too loud, and the soup — still perfect.
Aling Bebang, eighty-six and unbending, stood by the stove in her apron patched with decades of spilled adobo. Her hands shook a little now, but her ladle didn't. The city outside could end, and she'd still be there, feeding whoever found the door open.
Scene 1 — Old Faces
Riki Dela Peña arrived first.
His jacket was soaked, whistle still hanging from his neck, sneakers leaving a faint trail of mud from the bridge court. He nodded to the regulars, the same ones who'd been there since Flowstate's posters peeled off the walls.
Aling Bebang: "You again? I thought coaching kept you too proud to eat my sinigang."
Riki: "Coaching kids keeps me hungry."
Aling Bebang: "Then sit. You're older but not wiser."
She served him before he could argue.
When she turned away, Riki reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a creased postcard — edges soft, handwriting small and clean.
The front showed a Davao shoreline at sunset.
On the back, only six words:
You still owe me a story.
He smiled, folded it back beside his whistle, and looked toward the kitchen.
The smell of broth drifted in — same as the day he'd left Cubao for the last time.
Scene 2 — The Return from Sendai
Later that night, a beige van pulled up across the street.
The door opened, and a tall figure ducked under the rain.
Teo Alvarado — older, quieter, carrying the weight of roads left behind.
Beside him, Kaiya Yamaguchi Alvarado, coat half-buttoned, hair pinned up hastily, carrying a pot wrapped in cloth.
Their son, Kenta, trailed behind with the grin of someone still pretending he hadn't almost ruined a city.
Aling Bebang looked up from the counter.
Aling Bebang: "You. The tall one. You still owe me for the broken chair in 2029."
Teo: "That was Renz's elbow."
Aling Bebang: "And your height's fault."
She gestured them in anyway.
Aling Bebang: "Sit. You, the boy, and the scientist. Eat before the food cools — conversation tastes better with broth."
Kenta laughed quietly, brushing raindrops from his sleeves.
It felt like the kind of welcome you don't question — only obey.
Scene 3 — The Other Kitchen
From the back room came the smell of something richer — roasted garlic, chili, soy.
Then a familiar voice:
Arin Sol: "Bebang, you're stealing my customers again."
Aling Bebang: "You charge extra for garnish. They know better."
Arin stepped out, older now, faint gray at his temples, towel around his neck.
Behind him, Lira Vale emerged, calm as ever, sleeves rolled up, carrying a tray of bowls.
Kaiya froze for a heartbeat — the quiet joy of a mother seeing her son still doing exactly what she hoped he would.
Arin: "Hey, Ma."
Kaiya: "You still overcook your rice?"
Arin: "Only when gravity interferes."
Aling Bebang: "Gravity or ego — same thing."
The laugh that followed filled the small eatery like light.
Scene 4 — Gathering
By midnight, the tables were full — some faces new, some almost mythical.
Lira and Kaiya compared notes on fermentation and flavor memory.
Teo leaned back, quietly content, watching Kenta and Riki trade stories about long roads and narrow escapes.
Steam fogged the windows. The rain softened outside.
Soso and Ren Vale Sol, Arin's kids, darted between tables serving bowls, arguing over who carried faster.
Aling Bebang smacked the counter when they dropped a spoon.
Aling Bebang: "Careful! You spill that, you clean the floor with your mouth."
Riki laughed until he coughed.
Riki: "She hasn't changed."
Teo: "Maybe she's the only one who shouldn't."
Scene 5 — Closing Time
The noise dwindled as the fireworks began.
A faint hum of city pop from someone's old radio floated through the open door — something Miki Matsubara, something half-memory.
Aling Bebang placed one last bowl at the center of the table.
Steam curled upward, haloed by flickering light.
Aling Bebang: "For whoever's still hungry after all this time."
No one spoke.
They just ate — quietly, gratefully.
Outside, the rain met the rhythm of laughter and spoons.
Scene 6 — After Midnight
When the streets emptied and the fireworks thinned to smoke, Bebang handed the rag to Kenta.
Aling Bebang: "You close. I've been doing this since before your dad could dribble."
Kenta: "Yes, ma'am."
She shuffled toward the doorway, leaning against the frame.
Across the street, neon from the convenience store flickered against the puddles.
For a moment, the reflection looked like stars.
Teo locked the door.
Riki turned off the fan.
Kaiya and Lira gathered the bowls.
Arin took Bebang's arm, steadying her.
She looked back one last time at her eatery — the place that somehow fed everyone the world tried to forget — and said,
"See? I told you. The universe always comes home to eat."
The others laughed softly.
It wasn't a joke. It was a truth.
Outside, the city exhaled.
The bridge echoed faintly with the sound of a basketball and the sea of voices just living — still here, still hungry.
Above the doorway, the old sign buzzed with half-working light:
Aling Bebang's Eatery — Since Forever.
End of Saga