The day stretched lazily into the late afternoon as I wandered back to Tata Lino's mansion. The cool breeze carried the faint scent of gardenias from the small patch of flowers I had helped him plant last summer. I stopped at the gate, taking a moment to admire the house that had become my sanctuary over the years. The sprawling vines hugging its walls, the creaky wooden steps of the front porch—everything about it felt like home.

Pushing the gate open, I noticed Tata Lino hunched over the small table in the front yard, carefully sorting through a box of seeds. His hands, though weathered and trembling slightly with age, moved with the precision of someone who had spent a lifetime in the soil.

"Working hard as always, Tata?" I teased as I approached, setting my bag of supplies on the porch.

He looked up, his eyes crinkling with warmth at the sight of me. "These seeds won't plant themselves, ija. But maybe, if my favorite granddaughter lends me a hand tomorrow, the garden will flourish before the rains come."

I laughed, settling into the chair opposite him. "You know I'm always ready to help. But you should rest more, Tata. Let me take care of the heavy work."

He waved a dismissive hand. "Bah! Rest is for the old, and I'm not quite there yet." But the glint in his eye betrayed his exhaustion.

We chatted for a while, the conversation flowing easily from the weather to the children I taught at the art studio. Tata always loved hearing about them—his face lit up every time I mentioned a particularly talented student or a funny incident from class.

After a while, he stood and stretched, wincing slightly as he straightened up. "Come on inside, ija. It's getting late, and I've made something special for dinner."

I followed him into the house, the scent of freshly cooked stew wafting through the air. The dining table was already set with simple dishes: steaming bowls of sinigang, a platter of fried fish, and a plate of sliced mangoes with bagoong.

"I see you've outdone yourself again, Tata," I said with a grin, grabbing a pitcher of cold water from the counter to set on the table.

He chuckled, motioning for me to sit down. "Enjoy it while you can. My cooking skills might not last forever."

"Don't say that," I scolded gently. "You're going to outlive us all with your stubbornness."

His laughter echoed softly through the room as we took our seats.

The clinking of utensils and the gentle hum of the electric fan were the only sounds accompanying us at the dining table. The warmth of the late afternoon sun filtered through the lace curtains, casting soft patterns on the polished wood. Tata Lino sat across from me, his weathered hands cradling a cup of tea. His silence was heavier than usual, and his sharp gaze lingered on me longer than I was comfortable with.

I kept my head down, focusing on my food, but the weight of his stare was impossible to ignore. Finally, I put down my fork and raised an eyebrow. "Tata, what is it? You're staring like I've grown a second head."

He cleared his throat, setting his glass down with deliberate care. His movements were slow, as if weighing every word he was about to say. "Is it true that you agreed to marry Fuse?"

I felt a small smile tug at my lips. "Yes, Tata. I said yes," I replied, my tone soft but firm. I picked up my fork again, taking a bite of the stew he'd prepared earlier.

He nodded, but the lines on his forehead deepened, betraying his concern. For a moment, he said nothing, swirling his tea as though it held answers to unspoken questions. Then, with a careful tone, he asked, "And what happens if Greco comes back?"

The question hit me like a gust of cold wind. My hand froze midair, the spoon hovering over my plate. I stared at him, trying to process his words. He didn't look away, his calm but probing gaze waiting for my reaction.

"Tata, it's been ten years," I said slowly, setting my fork down. I folded my hands in my lap, suddenly feeling exposed under his scrutiny. "A lot has changed since then."

He didn't reply immediately. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, the wooden frame creaking softly. His fingers traced the rim of his cup before he finally spoke. "I received a call from him this morning."

The fork slipped from my grasp, clattering against the porcelain plate. "What?" My voice came out sharper than I intended.

"He's coming back to the Philippines," Tata said, his voice calm but tinged with something I couldn't quite place. "For his art exhibit."

"Art exhibit?" I repeated, disbelief coloring my tone. Greco—exhibiting his art? It was a version of him I hadn't imagined.

"He's become a great artist," Tata explained, leaning forward slightly. "You know the paintings in the basement? Those are his. That's what he was working on when he stayed here with me."

I blinked, caught off guard. All these years, I'd admired those pieces—the bold strokes, the intricate emotions captured in paint. And they were his? A mix of emotions swirled in me—surprise, admiration, and a bittersweet ache I couldn't quite name.

"Well," I said after a moment, exhaling a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, "good for him. It must've taken a lot for him to decide to return. I'm happy he's moving forward with his life." I meant every word, though saying them left a peculiar heaviness in my chest.

Tata Lino studied me for a long time, his gaze searching my face as if reading between the lines. Finally, he broke the silence. "Do you truly love Fuse?"

This time, I didn't hesitate. I met his eyes directly, my voice steady and sure. "I love Fuse, Tata. I love him deeply. He's been by my side through everything. Even if Greco returns, it won't change how I feel about Fuse."

Tata's expression softened, a small smile breaking through his stern demeanor. He nodded, his weathered hand reaching out to pat mine gently. "Then that's all that matters, ija. Just be sure of your heart. Love deserves certainty."

I smiled back, grateful for his wisdom, though his words lingered longer than I expected. For the rest of dinner, I couldn't shake the thought of Greco's return. Not because I doubted my feelings for Fuse—but because it meant confronting a chapter of my life I thought had long since closed.