Chapter 1
The Hill That Waited
Mira Alvarez did not believe in dramatic grief.
She believed in quiet ones.
The kind that folds itself into laundry.
The kind that stirs itself into coffee.
The kind that sits beside you at dinner and eats without speaking.
Her father left on a Tuesday morning that smelled like overcooked rice.
There was no shouting. No broken plates. No "I'm never coming back."
He zipped his old blue suitcase slowly, as if giving someone time to stop him. No one did.
"I found work in Manila," he said, not looking directly at either of them. "Construction. It's better pay."
Her mother nodded like this was a weather update.
Mira stood by the sink pretending to wash an already clean glass.
"How long?" she asked.
"Not sure."
That was the first lie.
He left before noon. The tricycle engine faded down the road like a sound effect in a bad movie — too quick, too final.
Mira didn't cry.
She finished washing the dishes.
She swept the floor.
She fed the stray cat that kept returning even when shooed away.
She didn't cry until three weeks later.
It happened while she was folding one of his old shirts — the maroon one with a small tear near the collar. She lifted it to her face to smell it.
It smelled like nothing.
That was when it hit her.
She couldn't remember his laugh clearly anymore.
And that terrified her more than his leaving.
That afternoon, she climbed the hill.
The hill wasn't famous. It didn't appear on maps or social media posts. It was just behind the old basketball court, past the cracked cement and the graffiti that read "LOVE IS A TRAP."
Children sometimes flew kites there. Teenagers sometimes drank cheap liquor there at night.
But at 5:27 p.m., it belonged to Mira.
There was a wooden bench at the top. Slightly crooked. One leg shorter than the others, so it leaned a little to the left like it was tired.
She sat down and looked at the sky.
And the sky — as if on cue — began to burn.
Orange spilled into pink. Pink melted into gold. The clouds looked like they had been brushed with fire.
Mira inhaled.
It was unfair.
How could something be this beautiful while her house felt so empty?
"You don't get to be this pretty," she muttered to the sky. "Not when things are like this."
The sky, of course, ignored her.
She watched until the sun disappeared completely.
The next day, she came back.
And the day after that.
And the day after that.
Soon it became ritual.
She would finish helping her mother at the sari-sari store. Count coins. Hand out change. Smile at customers.
Then she would leave at 5:15.
Climb.
Sit.
Watch.
She started whispering to the sunset like it was a confessional booth.
"I'm scared."
"I'm angry."
"I don't want to hate him."
The sky never answered.
But it stayed long enough for her to speak.
And that was something.
Chapter 2
The Boy Who Drew Broken Things
She wasn't expecting anyone to be there.
But one Thursday evening in July, someone was sitting on her bench.
A boy.
He looked about her age. Maybe older by a year. His slippers were dusty, his jeans slightly frayed at the hem. He was bent over a notebook, sketching with intense focus.
Mira stopped walking.
"That's my seat," she said before she could stop herself.
He looked up.
His eyes were dark. Calm.
"Your seat?"
"Yes."
He glanced at the empty hill. "Did you buy it?"
"No."
"Did you build it?"
"No."
"Did you name it?"
She hesitated. "No."
"Then how is it yours?"
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then said, stubbornly, "I come here every day."
He studied her face, as if trying to measure the seriousness of that claim.
Then he scooted slightly to the side.
"There's room for two."
She almost refused out of pride.
But the sky was already turning orange.
So she sat down.
They didn't talk for a while.
He kept sketching. She kept staring at the horizon.
Finally, she glanced at his notebook.
"You're drawing the tree."
"Yeah."
"It looks… lonely."
He shrugged. "It is."
"How do you know?"
"It stands here every day."
She snorted. "That doesn't make it lonely."
"It doesn't make it not lonely either."
She studied him more carefully now.
"What's your name?"
"Eli."
"Mira."
He nodded. "You come here every day?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
She looked back at the sky.
"Because it leaves."
He frowned slightly. "The sun?"
"Yes."
"It comes back."
"Not the same way."
That made him pause.
He didn't answer.
But the next day, he was there again.
Chapter 3
Unfinished Things
Eli Navarro moved back to town because his mother got sick.
Mira learned this on their fourth evening of sitting together in near silence.
"What kind of sick?" she asked carefully.
He kept sketching.
"Kidney problems. Needs treatment in the city, but we can't afford to stay there long. So we came back."
"Oh."
He nodded. "She says the air here is cleaner. Like that fixes organs."
Mira let out a soft laugh.
He glanced at her.
"You live nearby?"
"Down the road past the bakery."
"The one that smells like sugar every morning?"
"That's the one."
"Do you work there?"
"Sometimes. Part-time."
He nodded approvingly. "That explains why you always smell like bread."
She blinked. "I do not."
"You do."
She pretended to be offended.
He smiled slightly.
It was the first time she saw him smile.
It changed his face completely.
"What do you always draw?" she asked.
He turned the notebook toward her.
It wasn't just the tree.
It was broken houses. Abandoned sheds. Cracked windows. Rusted gates.
"Why broken things?" she asked.
He shrugged.
"They're honest."
"How?"
"They don't pretend to be perfect."
She swallowed.
"I think sunsets pretend," she said.
He looked at her.
"How?"
"They're beautiful right before they disappear."
He tilted his head slightly.
"Or maybe they're beautiful because they disappear."
That stayed with her.
Chapter 4
Letters
September arrived with heavier air.
Sticky. Slow.
One afternoon, Mira came home to find an envelope on the table.
Her name written in familiar handwriting.
Her hands trembled.
She stared at it for a long time before touching it.
Her mother didn't say anything.
That evening, she brought it to the hill unopened.
Eli noticed immediately.
"Bad news?"
"I don't know yet."
She showed him the envelope.
He nodded slowly.
"Are you going to read it?"
"I'm scared."
"Of what?"
"That it'll say he's not coming back."
"And if it says he is?"
She laughed weakly. "That might be worse."
He didn't push her.
They watched the sky begin to burn.
Then she opened it.
The letter was short.
Apologetic.
Full of explanations that felt both sincere and insufficient.
He wrote about pride. About money. About shame.
He said he missed them.
He didn't promise anything.
Mira read it twice.
Then she folded it carefully.
"How do you feel?" Eli asked gently.
She thought about it.
"Angry," she admitted. "But also… lighter."
"Because?"
"At least he's still somewhere."
The sky turned violet.
For the first time, the sunset didn't feel like something abandoning her.
It felt like something pausing.
Chapter 5
Rain Season
October brought rain.
The hill turned muddy. The bench damp.
One evening, Mira slipped climbing up.
Eli caught her wrist.
His grip was firm. Warm.
Their faces were suddenly too close.
"Careful," he said softly.
She nodded.
Neither of them moved for a second.
Then he let go.
That day the sky was covered in thick gray clouds.
"No sunset," she said quietly.
"It's still there."
"That's not the same."
He looked at her in a way that made her pulse shift.
"Not everything beautiful has to be visible to exist."
She didn't respond.
But she felt it.
The words weren't about the sun.
They were about something else.
Something forming slowly between them.
Chapter 6
The Almost
They never officially said what they were.
They just kept showing up.
Every day.
At 5:27.
He started bringing her small things — a candy he found at the store, a folded paper crane, once even a badly drawn cartoon of her scolding the sun.
She pretended not to treasure them.
But she kept all of them inside a small box under her bed.
One evening, the sunset was violently red.
The sky looked like it had been torn open.
"It looks angry," she said.
"It looks alive," he replied.
She looked at him.
He was already looking at her.
The moment stretched.
The air felt different.
"If you left," she asked quietly, "would you tell me?"
He hesitated.
"Yes."
"Even if you didn't know when you were coming back?"
"Yes."
"Promise?"
He swallowed.
"Promise."
She believed him.
That was the dangerous part.
Chapter 7
The Leaving
November arrived too quickly.
"My mom's going back to the city for treatment," Eli said one afternoon, not meeting her eyes. "We're leaving next week."
The words landed like a stone in her chest.
"Oh."
He nodded.
"We don't know how long."
She stared at the horizon.
The sky was gold that day.
Blindingly beautiful.
"You're leaving," she said.
"Yeah."
"You promised you'd tell me."
"I did."
She nodded.
He wasn't breaking his promise.
But it still hurt.
His last evening on the hill felt suspended in glass.
Neither of them spoke much.
They just watched the sky.
When the sun dipped lower, he handed her his sketchbook.
Inside were dozens of drawings.
The tree.
The bench.
The hill.
And her.
Over and over.
"You kept drawing me," she whispered.
"You kept showing up."
Her throat tightened.
"I used to think sunsets were sad," she said softly. "Because they meant something was ending."
"And now?"
She inhaled slowly.
"Now I think they're proof that endings can still be beautiful."
He smiled.
"That's hopeful."
She nudged him gently.
"Don't ruin it."
The sun disappeared.
He stood.
"I'll come back," he said.
She didn't ask when.
She just nodded.
Chapter 8
After He Left
The first evening after Eli left felt heavier than Mira expected.
The hill was the same. The crooked acacia tree leaned stubbornly to the left. The wooden bench wobbled exactly the way it always had. The town below glowed with tiny, flickering lights.
But something was missing.
She sat on the bench anyway. The sunset streaked across the horizon, burning orange, pink, and purple. She tucked her knees to her chest and stared at the fading light, thinking of Eli.
She didn't speak aloud. Words weren't necessary. The quiet between her and the hill said everything.
Mira remembered what he had said on their last evening together: "Endings can be beautiful."
She repeated it silently. She tried to believe it.
The air smelled like wet grass and dust. The wind rustled the acacia leaves. Mira traced the rough wood of the bench with her fingertips. She could almost imagine Eli sitting beside her, pencil in hand, sketching the sky with that furrowed concentration she loved.
She realized she no longer whispered fears into the sky. She whispered plans instead.
I'm applying for college.
I'm saving money.
I will forgive him someday.
The sun disappeared completely. Mira stayed until darkness settled over the hill. She finally stood and walked home. Even alone, she felt the hill had given her something she hadn't realized she needed: hope.
Chapter 9
Life in Linabuan Sur
Mira's life in Linabuan Sur went on, slowly, predictably, quietly.
Mornings started at the bakery, where she worked part-time. Mang Tomas would grunt at her presence, handing her warm pandesal in exchange for a small smile. The smell of baked bread became her companion, a comfort after Eli's absence.
School was another rhythm. Mira often sat at the back of the classroom, notebook open, pretending to take notes. But most of her attention drifted to the hill behind the basketball court, to the bench, to the sunsets she had borrowed in memory.
Her best friend, Lara, still didn't understand. "Why do you keep going there every day?" Lara asked one afternoon as they walked home. "It's just a hill, Mira. People don't even notice it."
Mira shrugged. "It's quiet," she said. "It listens."
"That's… boring," Lara muttered.
"Boring is good sometimes," Mira replied with a small smile, letting the conversation drop.
Evenings were Mira's own. She climbed the hill every day, sometimes with a sketchbook, sometimes just with her thoughts. The sunsets had shifted in colors since Eli left — gold fading into purple, pink melting into gray — but she noticed beauty in their unpredictability now.
Sometimes she imagined Eli drawing there, imagining the same skies, imagining her silhouette framed by the dying light.
Chapter 10
New Routines
Mira's hill visits became more structured, more intentional. She arrived every afternoon at 5:27 p.m., the exact time the sun began its descent. She carried a small sketchbook and a pencil case, even if she didn't always draw.
She began recording the sunsets. Sometimes she drew clouds shaped like feathers, sometimes flames of orange and pink, sometimes she only made marks — a streak here, a blot there — to capture emotion rather than appearance.
She noticed details she had never seen before: a bird perched briefly on the acacia, the way the wind moved over the grass, the shifting angles of sunlight as it hit the town below.
One evening, she caught herself speaking aloud.
"You were here," she whispered. "Even if you weren't."
The wind carried the words away. Mira didn't care.
She realized that the hill, the sunset, and the memory of Eli were more alive than any conversation she had had that day.
Chapter 11
Letters and Memories
September brought letters.
One afternoon, Mira found an envelope on her desk, her father's handwriting neat but hesitant. She froze. For days, she ignored it, leaving it in place as if the paper could vanish on its own.
Finally, she brought it to the hill, the envelope heavy in her pocket. The sky was a soft orange, the sun dipping toward the horizon. She sat on the bench, her legs crossed, heart pounding.
"I don't know if I'm ready," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper.
Eli wasn't there. But she imagined him, sitting with her, patient, waiting for her to face what she feared.
She opened the envelope. The letter was short, apologetic, and yet painfully honest. He wrote about pride, shame, and the struggles that had kept him away. He promised he would try, though he gave no timeline.
Mira folded the paper carefully, sliding it back into the envelope.
"How do you feel?" she murmured, more to the wind than to anyone else.
"Confused," she answered herself. "Angry, sad… a little relieved."
And then she smiled. Light returned to her chest. Even after loss, even after distance, the light had a way of sneaking back in.
Chapter 12
The Hill's Lessons
October brought rain. Mira and the hill adapted to the rhythm of puddles, mud, and slippery paths. She learned to step carefully, to watch where her feet went. The acacia tree swayed violently, leaves whipping against her face.
She imagined Eli there. She imagined his voice saying: "Not everything beautiful has to be visible to exist."
And she realized he had been right all along. Beauty wasn't about permanence. It wasn't about possession. It wasn't even about being together. Beauty was about noticing, remembering, holding something in your heart when the world seemed to move on.
She sketched in the rain, smudging lines, letting the paper soak. Every mark was alive with memory, with feeling, with longing.
The hill taught her patience. The sunsets taught her hope. And the memories of Eli taught her courage.
Chapter 13
Almost Love
By November, Mira understood a truth she had tried to avoid: she had fallen quietly, secretly, for Eli.
She remembered the little things: his hair falling over his eyes, his small smiles, the way he concentrated on his sketches, the way he seemed to notice her without saying it.
Sometimes, she caught herself smiling mid-thought, remembering the warmth of his hand on hers when she slipped on muddy paths, remembering his gentle teasing, remembering the way he looked at her across the hill, across the sketches, across time.
She didn't admit it. Not yet.
The hill carried the secret instead. It always had.
Chapter 14
City News
November was unkind.
Eli's mother needed treatment in the city again.
"You'll have to leave," Mira realized one evening as they spoke over the phone.
"Yes," he said. "Next week."
Mira stared at the sunset, now fading into gray clouds.
"I'm going to miss this," she whispered.
"Me too," he replied.
Even in absence, he made the world feel heavier, yet fuller. The hill seemed emptier, yet brimming with memories.
Chapter 15
The Sketchbook
His last evening on the hill came quietly, almost like a whisper.
He handed her his sketchbook.
Inside were dozens of drawings: the crooked tree, the wooden bench, the slope of the hill, Mira herself, captured in soft pencil lines over and over again.
"You kept drawing me," she whispered.
"You kept showing up," he replied softly.
The sun dipped low. Crimson spread across the sky.
"I used to think sunsets were sad," she admitted. "Because they meant something was ending."
"And now?" he asked.
"Now I think they're proof that endings can still be beautiful."
He smiled. Not a big smile. Not a showy one. But one that reached his eyes.
And Mira understood. Endings weren't always final. Sometimes, endings were beginnings in disguise.
Chapter 16
After
Mira returned to the hill every day.
The bench leaned the same way. The tree stood the same. The sunsets arrived, vibrant, shifting, constant.
She sketched. She breathed. She whispered plans:
I'm applying for college.
I'm saving money.
I will forgive, I will grow, I will wait.
Months passed. Messages from Eli came sometimes:
"City sunsets are ugly."
"I miss the hill."
"Are you still going?"
Always, her reply was: "Yes. Every day."
And the hill waited.
Patient. Forgiving. Honest.
Until one evening in early March, footsteps approached.
Mira didn't turn immediately. She already knew.
"There's room for two," a familiar voice said.
She smiled before facing him.
The sunset burned gold. Warm. Alive.
And for the first time in months, she didn't feel like she was borrowing the light. She felt like she had earned it. She stayed for a while, letting the wind carry her thoughts, not knowing that tomorrow the hill would give her more than memories.
Chapter 17
Return of the Light
The next morning, Mira woke with the first golden streaks of dawn brushing her window. It was strange, quiet, almost impossibly gentle, as if the sun itself was cautious, careful not to startle her.
She dressed quickly, tying her hair in a messy ponytail, and grabbed her sketchbook. Every fiber of her being pulled her toward the hill. The hill had become more than just a place—it was a compass for her emotions, a lighthouse for the heart she thought had been adrift.
The walk to the hill felt different. The streets of Linabuan Sur were awakening: vendors setting up their stalls, the smell of fresh coffee mixing with fried empanadas, the hum of tricycles already rattling down the uneven roads. Children ran past, laughing, kicking a ball with no regard for direction. Mira smiled softly at all of it, but her eyes kept drifting to the path that led up to the hill.
When she reached the slope, her breath caught.
He was there.
Eli. Not at a distance, not as a memory in her mind. He was really there, sitting cross-legged on the wooden bench, pencil in hand, sketching the first streaks of sunrise. His hair was messy, wind-tossed, his shirt slightly wrinkled. He looked almost… ordinary. Yet the sight made her heart thump in a way she hadn't felt in months.
"Morning," he said softly, glancing up and offering her the faintest of smiles.
"Morning," she replied, her voice a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might shatter this fragile miracle.
He shifted, making room on the bench. "I came back early," he said simply. "Couldn't wait for the sunset."
Mira perched beside him, keeping her gaze fixed on the horizon. The sun had just started to rise, and for the first time in a long time, she felt no weight pressing against her chest. Only light.
"I wasn't sure if I'd ever see this view again," she admitted.
Eli tilted his head, curious. "Why not?"
"Because… life moves fast," she said. "And sometimes people move faster. I wasn't sure if this hill—or you—would still be here."
"I always said there's room for two," he said quietly, almost like a vow. "And I meant it."
Her chest tightened. She wanted to laugh, cry, and yell all at the same time, but she did none of those things. Instead, she reached into her bag, pulled out her sketchbook, and opened to a blank page.
Eli peeked at it. "Drawing again?"
She nodded. "The sun is… different today. I think it deserves its own story."
He chuckled softly. "Then we'll both draw it. Together."
For hours, they sat side by side, pencils scratching against paper, capturing the sky in strokes of gold, orange, and pink. Sometimes they exchanged glances, sometimes small smiles, and sometimes silence. But it was the kind of silence that didn't hurt—it was a gentle presence, a shared heartbeat in stillness.
Later, as the sun climbed higher, they leaned back against the bench. Mira traced the edge of the wood absentmindedly. "Do you remember the first time we met here?" she asked.
Eli smiled, eyes squinting against the sunlight. "You told me this was your seat."
"And you sat anyway," she said, laughing softly. "Even though I told you I came here every day."
"I think I wanted to see why it mattered so much," he replied.
"And did you?"
"Yes," he said simply. "I understood."
She turned toward him. The wind played with his hair, brushing against his cheek. "Eli… I'm glad you came back."
He reached for her hand, holding it gently. "I never left, Mira. Not really."
For a moment, everything felt suspended—the hill, the sky, the town below, and their hearts. It was a moment that promised forever without needing the word.
When they finally walked down the hill together, their fingers intertwined, Mira realized something she hadn't allowed herself to before: light doesn't just return. Sometimes it comes with someone beside you, steady and sure, ready to share it.
That afternoon, they stopped by the bakery. Mang Tomas grunted a greeting as usual, handing Mira her favorite warm pandesal. But this time, there was laughter—shared between two people who had carried months of waiting, absence, and quiet longing.
As they walked past the cracked basketball court, the sun blazing high in the sky, Mira thought about all the sunsets she had borrowed. All the sunsets she had returned to. And she understood finally: the light she had kept within her didn't belong to the sky. It belonged to her.
And now, it belonged to them both.
The hill waited behind them, patient and eternal. The tree leaned left, the bench wobbled exactly the same, and the sky promised new beginnings, every day.
And for the first time, Mira didn't feel like she was waiting anymore.
She was home. With Eli beside her, hand in hand, the months of waiting, absence, and quiet longing melted away. The hill had waited patiently, the sunsets had returned faithfully, and she finally understood that home wasn't just a place—it was a feeling, a presence, a shared heartbeat. They stayed on the bench as the morning light stretched over the town, casting long shadows that intertwined like the fingers they held. Mira breathed in the soft, familiar scents of grass and dust, of distant cooking fires, and even the faint tang of the sea beyond the hills. Every sound, every flicker of movement in Linabuan Sur, felt vivid and full of life. For the first time in months, she didn't need to borrow light from the sky. It shone in her chest, steady and unwavering, and now it was theirs to share.