I was certain it had been real. His breath against my neck, the lingering smell of sampaguita on his shirt, the faint taste of peppermint when he kissed me. I remembered how Miguel always wore that faded blue hoodie I teased him about, the one that made him look like a boy who refused to grow up. He laughed when I said it, held me tighter, whispered I love you in Tagalog, and promised we would marry soon.
But when morning came, the bed was empty.
I reached for him but felt only cold sheets. I told myself he must have gone for an early jog through the quiet streets of Quezon City. His cologne clung to the pillow, and my body still remembered his touch. Nothing about it felt like a dream.
When my calls went unanswered, I tried again and again. That afternoon, my best friend Clarissa walked in without knocking. Her eyes were red and swollen.
“Isla,” she whispered, “you do not know?”
My voice cracked. “Know what?”
Her tears spilled as she spoke. “Miguel is dead. The accident on EDSA during the storm. He died two nights ago.”
The words made no sense. I laughed bitterly, shaking my head. “He was here. Last night. I have his messages, his voice note. He said he was coming to me.”
Clarissa grabbed my phone. Her hands trembled as she stared at the screen. “Isla, he could not have sent these. His body was already in the morgue.”
My knees gave out. I clung to the bedpost, the world spinning around me.
That night I saw him again. Sometimes he stood at the foot of my bed. Sometimes he whispered in my ear. One night, when I broke down and begged for strength, I heard his voice clearly. “Do not be afraid. Our child is coming.”
At first I thought it was grief. But when my period never came, I grew uneasy. Once. Twice. Then came the sickness. I bought the test with trembling hands. Two bold lines appeared. Positive.
The only man I had been with was Miguel. And Miguel was gone.
I forced myself to visit a clinic in Manila. I lied about the dates, pretending he had visited me earlier. The doctor’s questions grew cautious. When she pressed the stethoscope to my belly, her expression shifted.
“There is movement,” she said, “but no heartbeat.”
During the scan the technician kept frowning, adjusting the screen again and again. Finally she whispered, “There is a fetus. But it looks… luminous.”
I fled the hospital before anyone could stop me.
That night Miguel appeared again, this time by Manila Bay where we once watched the waves together. His hoodie swayed in the sea breeze. His eyes were heavy with sorrow. “Our child is not ordinary,” he said. “He carries both of us. You must protect him.”
When I woke, my bedroom window was open though I had locked it. His hoodie was folded neatly on my chair. It was warm when I touched it.
Terrified, I told Clarissa everything. She listened without laughter. She held my hand and said, “I need to bring you to my grandmother.”
Her grandmother lived in an old nipa hut on the edge of Laguna. Her hair was long and white, her eyes clouded with age but piercing. She studied me for only a moment before speaking. “You are carrying the child of a restless soul. This child is both blessing and warning. His father should never have returned. Now that the gate is open, others will come through.”
The kerosene lamp flickered violently. The room chilled as shadows crawled along the bamboo walls. The old woman scattered salt in a circle and ordered me to stand inside. “Do not step out. You are the bridge now. And bridges attract travelers from both sides.”
The air grew heavy. Voices filled the hut, wailing, laughing, calling. Then Miguel appeared. His eyes were empty with regret.
“I only wanted one more night,” he said. “I did not know I was tearing the veil.”
A monstrous figure stepped from the shadows. Its face was half burned, its eyes glowing like embers. It hissed when it saw me. Miguel moved in front of me. “You will not touch her. You will not take our child.”
The creature’s laugh shook the rafters. “You broke the law, spirit. Now she belongs to us.”
The old woman chanted in a language older than the islands. Clarissa clung to me, sobbing. Miguel turned toward me as his body began to fade. “Isla, you must let me go. If you hold on, they will claim everything.”
I screamed through my tears. “I cannot lose you again.”
“You have not lost me,” he whispered. “I live in him now. But if you hold on, the shadows will never leave.”
With breaking heart I said goodbye. His smile was the last thing I saw before he vanished. The monster shrieked and dissolved into smoke. The shadows retreated. Silence returned.
Nine months later, in a small hospital in Laguna, I gave birth to a boy. He did not cry. He only stared at me with eyes far older than his body. At night his skin glows faintly, and when I sing, I hear a second voice humming with mine. Miguel’s voice.
I named him Mateo, which means gift of God. Because even from the grave, Miguel left me one last gift.