The way I talk about this place and time could only exist in a bubble in my head. No words could describe the weight of my steps crunching against the rubble, the downtrodden paths void of souls to traverse them, and the empty vessels that once held languid dreams and weak sighs released into the wind. A breeze settled on my shoulders, dragging me along, whispering tales man could never fathom. It was silent but concurrently loud. The ground remembered what the sky could not.

My breaths were hurried, more so than the erratic steps I took. As if they have somewhere to be I should not. The summer heat, I wanted to blame, but in my current world, it was the least of my worries. Hands tucked in the pockets of my cardigan fraying at the hems and the sleeves, I trudged across a concrete wasteland, soles cracking shards of glass melted then cooled. Overhead, the towering skyscrapers of Talaba guided my path in their quiet watch. Windows glinted against the setting sun, jagged voids devouring what was left of their sparkle. Like me, they were only waiting for the next round they would try their luck in.

Sweat trickled down my face, which I wiped with the dusty edge of my sleeve. Holes ate away at the garment, the threads holding on to their way of life until they snapped. If I had my way, I would not be like these brittle threads. I would have unraveled the first day the sun gained companions.

My eyes dragged across the expanse bleeding before me. After the redevelopment initiative started ten years ago, the city finally looked proper. Now, the parks lay empty, weeds devoured the delicate landscaped patios, and the buildings crumbled under the weight of fire and metal. Elaborate houses and the bus routes leading into and away from them stood as decorations and targets for madmen with quick fingers and a propeller sent by heaven.

The township was fortunate it was far from the chaos of the piers, but it was still near the bay. If the ships moved closer to shore and opened fire, how would it have fared?

I swerved around the first bend, my calves pulsing from walking around since dawn. A yawn clawed at my throat, begging to be let out. I swallowed the urge. My surgical mask dug on the bridge of my nose, and I pinched it tighter when an army tank trotted past me, its conveyor wheels grinding the rubble into fine powder.

The temporary base loomed before me.

If one gazed at the dirty white canopies fluttering in the scant wind passing through the field scrubbed clean and arid, they would have attributed it to a street fair or a business showcase. But those were things of the past, one I could barely remember. Official documents say hell started only two years ago. Two years since the known world plunged into ruin, lost and decrepit. Two years since a new, unpredictable realm of debris and blood was born.

But to those of us who remained, who braved each passing day expecting struggle and loss, and who hunkered in the dark while the heavens burned, it had been longer. It was forever—the longest we have to endure.

I clenched my jaw and ducked my head at the uniformed men patrolling the area. No one cared if I sauntered to my death, not when their only focus was to load, aim, and shoot anyone who didn't look like them. The camp was not off-limits, and it wasn't my goal either. The sun crawled closer to the waterline, dragging a curtain of darkness laced with smoke and ember with it. I should have stolen a bike if I knew how far he wanted to meet.

It was a long way from Longos. Longer, because an errand held me back as far as Zapote, the only town close enough to the capital without being the front lines. I glanced the way I came, past the rising silhouette of chipped roofs and rippling, amber mirages. Home was a million miles away.

I gritted my teeth when I spotted a familiar figure taking cover under a canopy—a futile refuge and a more futile salvation. A lone, monoblock table waited behind him as if to catch his backward fall. Apart from that, nothing else joined them under the rickety roof.

The wind must have whispered my name because he turned my way before I crossed the littered street. A lit cigarette sparked between his lips, the burning stub accentuating his rough mustache and beard. Like laundry, our faces were the last things we have to mind in this reality.

"Maian," Raizen Estrella said, pronouncing my name better than his first attempt during freshman orientation. Three years my senior, he only spent one year in university with me before his eventual graduation. To think we would meet in the field years later, I would not have begged him to lend me his notes in BroadComm before his last semester ended. I didn't even get to use them; soon, I was running for my life.

A sigh slipped past my lips. I yanked the mask off my face. "What's up?" My boots brushed against compact soil and pushed aside a chunk of loose brick. "I told you to never call me when I'm on broadcasting duty. They could have traced our lines."

He shrugged, his long hair flicking over his shoulder. Fingers in a V-shape, he plucked the vice off his mouth. The sickly sweet smoke carried a hint of menthol when it hit my nose. Those cost like gold. Must have leached one from the officers. "Let them," he said, a little too nonchalantly for a matter which might involve his life. "What can they do about two journalists exchanging scoops?"

"I doubt you have something good," I answered. A frown pulled at the corners of my lips, dragging them down. I crossed my arms. "And I'm barely a journalist. Still have to finish my thesis and actually graduate."

Raizen leveled his gaze at me. "Does that matter now?" He waved his cigarette around, the ash sprinkling over our shoes, the dusty dirt, and the hem of his dark blue utility jacket. His eyes were dark, sad, and heavy—the same as mine whenever I catch them in reflective surfaces. "I crawled out three years ago, and I sure as hell don't feel like it. Yet, here we are."

A small chuckle rippled in my throat. "Here we are," I echoed, voice dying like a cigarette stub trampled underfoot. After what could have been a minute of silence, I angled my head at him. "Why call me out here, then?"

He stuck the cigarette back to his mouth, inhaled, and tucked his hand into his right jacket pocket. A sheet of advertising paper crunched as he handed it to me. "Managed to snag this from the embassy when I covered that bit," he said, blowing another column of slow death into the air. Better than bullets and shrapnel, but death nonetheless. "You might be interested."

I opened the near-crumpled sheet and read the words leaping out at me in thick, white text. Malayang Panitikan: Mga Kamalayan ng Pilipino sa Pagsubok. My frown deepened. Free Literature? Consciousness of Filipinos in Trials? I whipped towards Raizen. "What the hell is this?" The paper made more strained crackles when I waved it around. "I can't believe I walked miles for something ridiculous."

Raizen danced out of the paper's way before snatching my wrist. His cigarette was back between his fingers. "Just try it out, will you?" he reasoned. Why was he desperate for it? "You've got time, and I don't think they'd implement the deadline with everything going to shit."

I scoffed. "Or they have turned tail and canceled the whole thing," I countered before adding, "because everything is going to shit."

He opened his mouth but closed it again. His hand slipped off my wrist and stepped back before I pushed him against the table. The cigarette puffed when he took a snuff. "This is your chance to get your poems out there. We need those, now more than ever," he said in a quiet chill. "You can reach the right ears if you just let it."

I shoved the paper to his chest. "You enter," I said. "I'm not wasting time frolicking around. I need to get my family out, not...find another reason to stay."

"Maybe you should," was Raizen's only answer, handing the paper back to me. "Will you think about it first? You've got real talent for this, even as a freshie. Who knows what your poems look like now?"

Now? They probably look like this township.

"Thanks for the thought, Kuya Rai," I said, calling him by what everyone in my batch referred to him as. "But I should go. It's a long walk back to Longos."

He blew a breath, throwing the empty stub to the ground. His heel crunched against it, pronouncing death to death itself. "Still living in that area, eh?" He scratched his ear. "Why not move inland...say, Molino or Dasma? Or the mountains? Rizal's got a nice haven. Quezon too."

"Too many people," I answered. "And I don't need you giving advice on how to move a family who wants to stay rooted to one place for the rest of their lives. Longos is the last spot I could scrounge for their picky asses. Still got that Manila feel, but remote enough to not be called Manila."

As if he understood, Raizen snorted. "Well, I got no more words for ya, Maian," he said. "You've got it rough."

I stepped out of the influence of the tent, looking back to him one last time. "We all do," was all I said before stalking off.

The walk home was littered with stars, and for once, they would not burn me...I think. Any one of those twinkling dots against the inky sky could be spycrafts or bomber planes. I pulled a cap from my tote bag and slotted it on my head, warding off the cold fog poking my forehead. My hair bounced against my back when I lengthened my steps. Time could not move faster, but I could.

Night had fallen on me, and with the trek back taking me more than half a day, I would have to spend dawn somewhere. If shells came in revenge, I would never make it home. My teeth ground against each other. Stupid literature. Stupid poetry. Raizen was right about one thing—no one knew what my poems look like now. Because I was not writing them. Not when I have my survival to mind. Especially when I have something to lose and Raizen did not.

Well, not anymore.

I stopped walking after a dull ache speared on my side. Before I realized it, I was running. From who or what? No idea. Maybe if I ran faster, harder, and better, I could cross the sea, sneak past the warships gunning for shore, and throw my family to refuge as far as I could. My hands swung and gripped the cold, metal handrails lining the length of the flyover, holding my battered body away from the concrete floor. When did I climb up here? I wished I knew.

The crook of my arm met my forehead when I wiped my sleeve against it. I looked over the rails, watching the crumbling city below. Craters still smoking from the raid yesterday pocked the expanse at random intervals. Beyond the waterline, dark voids loomed. With a single command, our doom would visit us for the night. Maybe it would stay for a longer eternity.

Hush now, my baby; be still, love; don't cry, I found myself humming under my breath. A song from an ancient film, one beloved by all. I watched the vintage DVD as a child and loved this song so much that when the same scene unfolded before my eyes, I held on to it as a false comfort. As if it was my own mother singing to me.

Sleep as you're rocked by the stream. I took a deep breath, inhaling the cold but dry night air. A whiff of burning charcoal hung heavily on the atmosphere. I didn't need sunlight to know the sky would be gray tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that. Sleep and remember my last lullaby.

I closed my eyes, leaning my weight against the rails. So I'll be with you when you dream.

My voice floated off into the still darkness.

"River, oh river, flow gently for me." A voice resounded behind me, forcing me to whirl around. It came from a young man dressed in ashen scrubs and combat boots. His lips moved, pronouncing the words to the song as if he, too, knew them all his life. "Such precious cargo you bear."

I peeled off the rails and faced him fully. "Do you know somewhere he can live free?" I continued, to which he added, "River, deliver him there."

A second of silence passed between us. Two. None of us were nowhere closer to freedom.

"Hi." He gave me a small wave, a sheepish smile painting his features. "I love that song. Bummed me out when you stopped."

I scoffed. "Pretty rude to chime in," I said despite the smile mirroring in my face. "But welcome."

He extended a hand towards me. "Kian," he offered. A quick glance at the nameplate stitched on his shirt told me his full name was Kian Lucero. "I took a quick jog from camp since I can't sleep and passed by."

I took his hand. It was callous despite his child-like smile. "Maian," I replied. "Maian Dizon."

"What are you doing out here?" He scratched the back of his neck as he glanced around to amend his point. "It's a long way from the shelters."

The shelters in Molino and Dasmariñas, he meant. Why was everyone pointing me to those places today? "Do you work in the camp?" I prodded. "An army doctor, perhaps?"

He chuckled. "Hardly. I'm a third year medicine student, but I'm a reservist, so..." He shrugged. "I'm here."

I hummed. "That works," I said, letting go of his hand. My skin was still warm, and even the chill of the inky darkness couldn't take that away. I ducked my head at him. "Nice to meet you, but I should go."

His eyebrows rose. "Where?"

My boots thumped against the flyover's concrete floor when I stepped away from him and tucked my hands behind me. "Home."

And in a world as ours, it was the only place to be before pillars of fire come to devour us.