Greco

As I limped away from that place, the adrenaline that had kept me going finally began to wear off. Pain radiated through my body, particularly in my knee, which Nacthan had landed a solid hit on earlier. Every step felt like fire, but I had to keep moving, no matter how slow or awkward my gait became. I needed to put as much distance as possible between myself and that mess.

Leaning against a tree on the side of the road, I caught my breath, letting the weight of exhaustion pull me down. The sky had already darkened into night, and it hit me—I had been running for hours. When I left, it was still bright out. Now, the only light came from the faint glow of distant streetlamps and the moon.

The taste of blood lingered in my mouth, bitter and metallic. I spat onto the ground, trying to rid myself of it. My thoughts raced as I stared at the empty road ahead. Where could I go? I had no plan, no money, and no one I wanted to burden. Calling Kuya Daze was out of the question. He had his own problems, and I wasn't about to add to them.

After resting for a while, I pushed myself upright, despite the searing pain in my knee. With no clear destination in mind, I flagged down the first vehicle that passed—a bus. Desperation had left me with no room for choice. I climbed aboard and handed over the few crumpled bills left in my pocket to the conductor, silently cursing myself for not grabbing my wallet earlier. God knows where I'd dropped it in the chaos.

The bus ride blurred as exhaustion took over, and I drifted into an uneasy sleep. By the time I woke up, the bus had stopped at a terminal. Groggily, I looked outside and spotted a sign: De Grande Town.

De Grande Town? I'd never even heard of it before. But maybe that was a good thing. A place I'd never heard of meant a place no one would look for me.

I hobbled off the bus, my knee protesting with every step, and spotted a small roadside shop nearby. I scrounged through my pockets and found just enough change to buy a cigarette. Lighting it, I took a deep drag, the smoke filling my lungs like a bitter comfort.

"Sh*t," I muttered under my breath. "What now?"

I flicked the cigarette to the ground, grinding it under my shoe, but as I did, I noticed someone watching me. A man stood a short distance away, his gaze fixed on me. He was older, maybe in his sixties, with sharp eyes that seemed to see right through me.

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Killing yourself early, huh? Smoking like that won't do your health any favors, son."

I raised an eyebrow at him, irritation bubbling beneath the surface. "Mind your own business."

But instead of leaving, he stepped closer, studying me with an almost unsettling intensity. "You're not from around here," he remarked. "Judging by your clothes, I'd say you're from the city. What brings you all the way out here?"

I sighed, trying to keep my temper in check. "Look, I don't know you, and I'm not in the mood for small talk. Sorry."

To my surprise, the old man didn't take offense. He nodded slowly, as if considering something, before his lips curved into a smile. "Fair enough. But let me ask you this—need a place to stay?"

I frowned, caught off guard. "Why are you offering? You don't even know me."

"Because I need help," he said simply. "I'm building an art museum, and I could use an extra set of hands. You look like you could use a job and a roof over your head."

Suspicion flickered through me. Who just offered that kind of deal to a random stranger? "You could hire actual workers. Why me?"

He laughed again, a deep, hearty sound. "You're sharp. Call me Tata Lino. And yes, I could hire workers, but something tells me you might need this more than they do."

His words threw me off balance, and for a moment, I didn't know how to respond. I studied him carefully. There was no hint of deceit in his expression, just an unshakable calm that made me feel... safe.

After a moment's hesitation, I extended my hand. "Grecorson Pellaria."

A grin spread across his face as he shook my hand firmly. "Son, huh? That's what I'll call you. Your full name's a mouthful."

For the first time in what felt like forever, I laughed. A small, shaky laugh, but genuine. "Alright, Tata. Looks like you've got yourself an assistant."

As we walked away together, I couldn't help but feel a strange sense of relief. I didn't know why he'd chosen to help me, but for the first time in a long time, I felt like maybe I'd found a place to start over.

When Tata Lino led me to his place, I wasn't sure what to expect. The walk through De Grande Town had been long, especially with my injured knee, but he matched my slower pace without complaint. The mansion wasn't in the bustling town center but in a quieter area surrounded by trees and hills.

When we finally reached it, my jaw almost dropped. The mansion stood like a relic from another time, its facade a blend of old-world charm and rustic elegance. It had tall arched windows, vines creeping along the stone walls, and a sprawling garden that looked wild but strangely inviting.

"You call this home?" I asked, staring at the structure.

He chuckled. "Don't let it intimidate you. It's more bark than bite. Besides, this place doesn't compare to what we'll be working on soon."

I gave him a puzzled look, but he didn't elaborate. Instead, he led me inside, where the interior matched the mansion's timeless charm. The foyer alone was massive, with polished wooden floors, high ceilings, and walls lined with portraits and landscapes. It wasn't exactly pristine—some areas looked worn and dusty, like they hadn't been touched in years—but it was still impressive.

Tata Lino showed me to a modest guest room upstairs. The bed was small, but it looked clean, and the window offered a view of the garden below.

"It's simple, but it's yours as long as you need it," he said, his voice kind. "Rest up tonight, Son. Tomorrow, I'll take you to the real work."

I thanked him, though I still wasn't sure what I'd gotten myself into. As I lay on the bed, the reality of my situation began to sink in. I had no idea what tomorrow would bring, but for now, I had a roof over my head and a man who seemed willing to give me a chance. That was more than I'd had in a long time.

The next morning, after a quick breakfast of coffee and bread, Tata Lino took me to the art museum he'd been talking about. It wasn't part of his mansion, as I'd assumed, but a separate structure nestled in the heart of De Grande Town. The building was old, its brick exterior weathered by time, but it had character. Large arched windows let in streams of sunlight, and the sign above the entrance read: De Grande Art Museum: Coming Soon.

"This is the project," Tata said with a sweep of his hand. "It's been my dream to open this museum to the public, but there's a lot of work to be done before that happens."

Inside, the space was both chaotic and enchanting. Art pieces were scattered everywhere—paintings, sculptures, pottery—all waiting to find their place. Dust covered most surfaces, and some sections of the building still needed repairs.

"You sure you trust me with this?" I asked, looking around at the overwhelming mess.

He laughed. "You'll learn as we go. Besides, I have no doubt you'll figure it out."

For the next few days, I worked alongside Tata to transform the chaotic space into something that resembled an art museum. My tasks varied wildly. One day, I'd be cleaning sculptures, carefully wiping away years of grime to reveal their original beauty. The next, I'd be helping to repair broken frames or repainting walls to serve as backdrops for the exhibits.

Despite the physical labor, there was something oddly therapeutic about the work. My injured knee still throbbed with every step, but I found myself pushing through. It was better than sitting idle, letting my thoughts spiral.

Tata was patient but firm. He taught me how to handle fragile pieces, explaining the significance of each work as we went along. "This one," he said one afternoon, pointing to a vibrant painting of a bustling market scene, "was done by a local artist who passed away last year. She poured her heart into capturing the spirit of this town."

The stories behind the art fascinated me. They made me see the pieces not just as decorations but as fragments of someone's soul.

At night, Tata and I would sit in the back garden of the museum, eating simple meals of rice and dried fish. He'd share stories of his late wife, an artist herself, and how her passion for art had inspired him to start this project.

"She always believed art had the power to heal," he said one evening, his gaze fixed on the starry sky. "And I think you're starting to believe that too."

By the fourth day, I began to feel more comfortable in my role. I even found myself looking forward to the tasks ahead. Tata trusted me enough to let me curate a small section of the museum. He handed me a box of sketches and asked me to arrange them in a way that told a story.

At first, I wasn't sure I could do it. But as I spread the sketches out on the floor, a narrative began to form—an artist's journey from despair to hope. It felt strangely personal, like the story could've been mine.

When Tata saw the finished arrangement, he nodded in approval. "You've got an eye for this, Son," he said. "I knew I made the right choice bringing you on."

For the first time in what felt like forever, I felt proud of something I'd done.

The work wasn't just about transforming the museum—it was about transforming me. Each piece of art I touched, each story Tata shared, chipped away at the chaos inside me. I wasn't fixed, not by a long shot, but I was starting to feel like I had a place in the world again.

As I stood in the middle of the museum one evening, surrounded by pieces we'd cleaned and restored, I realized something: this place, this project, was more than just a job. It was a second chance.