Chapter 18 — Ghosts of the Past
Lyra's POV
The next morning, the city feels different.
The city looks the same — the same uneven sidewalks, the same old coffee shop at the corner of the street, the same lazy hum of tricycles passing by — but somehow it feels smaller. Like I've grown while everything else has stayed still.
Lola insists on cooking breakfast before we go. The table is covered with pandesal, eggs, and the hot chocolate she used to make me every morning when I was little. She chatters the whole time, telling stories about the neighbors, about how the mango tree finally bloomed again this year. I nod and smile where I can, but my mind's already miles away.
I don't want to go back to that school.
But pretending has always been easier than saying no.
Mom looks happier here — relaxed, like the city's air reminds her of simpler days. "It'll be nice, Lyra," she says as she ties her hair back. "You'll get to see everyone again. I'm sure they've missed you."
Missed me.
The words taste bitter.
When we pull up to the gates of Central High, the world tilts just a little. The building looks smaller, older, but it still smells the same — chalk dust, wet grass, and faint traces of paint from the art room. My heart starts beating faster, and I don't know if it's fear or familiarity.
The guard recognizes my mom immediately. "Ah, Ms. Solnne! Long time no see."
He lets us in without question, and the sound of our footsteps echoes through the courtyard. Students pass by in groups, laughing, their voices a blur of energy I can't keep up with.
My mom's talking to one of the teachers — old faces I barely remember — so I drift away, drawn toward the art building like a ghost returning to its grave.
The door creaks open just like it used to. The smell of paint hits me first — strong, nostalgic, almost comforting. I run my fingers along the old wooden tables, tracing initials carved into the surface. My old seat's still there, near the window. The same sunlight spills across it.
For a moment, I can almost see myself again — twelve years old, paint on my hands, smiling too wide. Before everything went wrong.
I used to come here to escape. Back then, home wasn't safe, and school wasn't kind. I remember sitting here after class, pretending to finish projects so I wouldn't have to go home yet. Sometimes the bullies would find me anyway. They'd whisper things when they walked by — things that stuck harder than any bruise.
"Half this, half that, not enough of either."
"Your dad's drunk again?"
"Maybe you'll crash like him too."
I shake the memory away, pressing my palms against the table until they sting.
"Lyra?"
The voice makes me freeze.
When I turn, it's Maeve, one of the girls from my old class. Her hair's shorter now, but her eyes are the same — curious, sharp. She blinks in disbelief. "It's really you?"
"Yeah," I say quietly. "Hey."
She gives a small, surprised laugh. "Wow. I thought you moved forever. You look… different."
Different. I wonder if she means older, or just sadder.
"I'm visiting for a while," I say, my voice steady enough to sound real. "A month maybe."
Maeve nods, rocking on her heels. "Everyone used to talk about you, you know. After you left. Some said you transferred because of what happened that day."
My stomach tightens. "What day?"
She shrugs, glancing toward the window. "You know — when they found out about your dad. People can be mean, Lyra. I didn't believe half the things they said, but you know how rumors are."
I force a smile that doesn't reach my eyes. "Yeah. I remember."
The bell rings, sharp and sudden. Students start to pour out of classrooms, flooding the hallway. Maeve waves before disappearing into the crowd. I stand there for a moment longer, feeling the walls close in.
I leave the building and find my way to the back garden — the one I used to sit in during lunch breaks. The bench is still there, paint chipped, surrounded by overgrown grass. I sit down, tracing patterns on the wood.
The air smells faintly of rain. A memory surfaces — me, hiding here during storms, counting thunderclaps until it was safe to go home. That was before Mom found the strength to leave. Before the car crash. Before everything broke.
I close my eyes.
It's strange. I thought I'd feel something coming back here — anger, grief, maybe even nostalgia. But all I feel is emptiness. Like the part of me that used to belong here doesn't exist anymore.
When Mom finds me again, her smile falters just a little. "Hey," she says softly. "You okay?"
I nod. "Just… remembering things."
She sits beside me, placing a gentle hand on my back. "You don't have to go back to those memories if you're not ready."
"I know."
But sometimes memories don't ask for permission. They just show up, uninvited and loud.
We walk home as the sun begins to set. The streets glow orange, and the air hums with the sound of children playing outside. For a moment, it almost feels like nothing's wrong.
When we reach Lola's house, the scent of adobo fills the air. She's humming again, moving around the kitchen like she never aged. "Lyra! Kumain ka na, come eat!"
Her warmth should comfort me — and it does, a little — but under it all, the ache lingers. The kind that doesn't fade overnight.
That night, I sit by the window, sketchbook open on my lap. My pencil moves on its own — not shapes or faces, just lines, dark and heavy. When I finally stop, I realize I've drawn the old music room door. The place where everything fell apart.
I close the book and whisper into the dark.
"I'm fine."
The words don't sound true. But saying them feels easier than the silence.