Whispers Of The Past

Chapter 1 The Girl Behind The Books

San Rafael, 1991

The late afternoon sun spilled golden light across the quiet town of San Rafael, casting long shadows over the dusty road that led to the Alcantara household. The mango trees lining the path swayed gently in the breeze, their leaves whispering secrets to one another. It was the kind of day that felt suspended in time—warm, slow, and filled with the scent of sun-dried grass and impending rain.

Inside the modest bungalow, Malliah Alcantara sat cross-legged on the floor of her bedroom, surrounded by a fortress of books. Her fingers traced the edges of a worn paperback, the pages yellowed and soft from years of rereading. She was fourteen, with a quiet grace that made her seem older than her years. Her hair, thick and dark, was pulled into a loose braid that fell over one shoulder, and her eyes—deep, thoughtful, and often unreadable—were fixed on the words in front of her.

She preferred the company of books to people. Books didn’t interrupt. They didn’t tease or compare or ask why she wasn’t more like her sister Clarisse. They simply existed, waiting to be opened, waiting to be understood.

From the living room came the sound of laughter—Clarisse’s voice, bright and melodic, followed by the deeper timbre of a boy. Malliah’s ears perked up. She recognized the voice. Joshua Escultor. He was a senior at the local high school, a friend of Clarisse’s, and the subject of many whispered conversations among the girls in town. Tall, intelligent, and effortlessly charming, Joshua had a way of making people feel seen. Even Malliah, who had barely spoken to him, felt the pull of his presence.

She tried to return to her book, but the voices grew louder, closer. The door to her room creaked open.

“Malliah,” Clarisse said, poking her head in. “Can you bring us some iced tea? We’re working on our project.”

Malliah nodded, setting her book aside. She didn’t mind helping. It gave her a reason to observe without being observed.

In the kitchen, she poured the tea into tall glasses, the ice clinking softly. She arranged them on a tray, careful not to spill, and walked slowly to the living room. Joshua was seated on the couch, a notebook open in his lap. He looked up as she entered, and for a moment, their eyes met.

“Thanks,” he said, his voice warm.

Malliah nodded, placing the tray on the table. She turned to leave, but Joshua spoke again.

“What are you reading?”

She paused, surprised. “Um… The Little Prince.”

Joshua smiled. “That’s one of my favorites.”

Clarisse rolled her eyes. “She’s always reading something weird.”

Joshua didn’t laugh. Instead, he looked at Malliah with quiet interest. “It’s not weird. It’s beautiful.”

Malliah felt her cheeks flush. She mumbled a polite goodbye and slipped back into her room, heart thudding.

Malliah sat on the edge of her bed, the book forgotten in her lap. Her fingers traced the spine absentmindedly, but her thoughts were elsewhere—still lingering on the way Joshua had looked at her. It wasn’t the kind of look she was used to. Not the amused glances from classmates who found her too quiet, nor the indulgent smiles from relatives who thought her bookishness was a phase. Joshua’s gaze had held something else. Curiosity, maybe. Or recognition.

She wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Outside, the sun dipped lower, casting a warm amber hue across the walls. The house had settled into its usual rhythm—Clarisse’s laughter echoing down the hallway, their mother humming in the kitchen, the occasional bark of a neighbor’s dog. Malliah stood and walked to the window, watching the light play across the leaves of the mango tree in their yard. That tree had been her companion for years. She’d read beneath it, cried beneath it, dreamed beneath it. And beside it sat the bamboo bench, worn and splintered, but still sturdy. Her father had built it when she was seven. It had become her sanctuary.

She wondered if Joshua had noticed it.

A knock at the door startled her. She turned to see Clarisse leaning against the frame, arms crossed, a teasing smile on her lips.

“You like him, don’t you?” Clarisse asked.

Malliah blinked. “What?”

“Joshua. You got all red when he talked to you.”

“I didn’t,” Malliah said quickly, but her voice betrayed her.

Clarisse laughed. “It’s okay. He’s cute. Everyone thinks so.”

Malliah looked down, unsure how to respond.

Clarisse stepped into the room, her tone softening. “He’s leaving for Manila soon. Engineering. Big dreams. You’ll probably never see him again.”

Malliah nodded, trying to ignore the sudden ache in her chest.

“Anyway,” Clarisse said, turning to leave, “don’t get your hopes up. He’s way older. And you’re… you.”

The words stung more than Malliah expected. She sat back down, the book now closed, her thoughts swirling. She didn’t know what she wanted from Joshua. She didn’t even know if she wanted anything. But something had shifted. Something quiet and tender had begun to stir.

That night, after dinner, Malliah slipped outside. The air was cool, the stars beginning to blink into view. She walked to the mango tree and sat on the bamboo bench, pulling her knees to her chest. The silence wrapped around her like a blanket.

She didn’t hear Joshua approach until he was almost beside her.

“Mind if I sit?” he asked.

She looked up, startled, then nodded.

He sat down, leaving a respectful distance between them. For a moment, neither spoke.

“I used to come here when I was younger,” Joshua said. “My cousin lived down the road. We’d climb that mango tree and pretend we were pirates.”

Malliah smiled faintly. “I used to pretend it was a spaceship.”

Joshua chuckled. “That’s cooler.”

They sat in silence again, the night stretching around them.

“I’m leaving next week,” he said quietly. “Manila.”

“I know.”

“I just… I wanted to say goodbye. And thank you.”

Malliah turned to him, confused. “For what?”

“For being… you. I don’t know if you realize it, but you have this calm about you. Like the world could be falling apart, and you’d still be reading under a tree.”

She didn’t know what to say. No one had ever described her like that.

Joshua stood, brushing off his jeans. “Take care, Malliah.”

She watched him walk away, the sound of his footsteps fading into the night.

She didn’t know it then, but that moment would stay with her for decades.

The next morning, the air was thick with humidity, the kind that clung to skin and made the wooden floors of the Alcantara home feel sticky beneath bare feet. Malliah woke early, as she always did, before the rest of the house stirred. She liked the quiet hours—the way the world felt paused, like a page waiting to be turned.

She stepped outside with her journal tucked under her arm. The mango tree stood tall, its branches heavy with fruit, some already ripening to a golden blush. She sat on the bamboo bench and opened her notebook, flipping past pages filled with quotes, sketches, and fragments of thought.

She began to write.

He sat beside me last night. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel. I didn’t know what to say. I never do. But he spoke like he saw something in me—not just the girl behind the books, but someone worth knowing. I don’t understand it. I don’t trust it. But I felt it.

She paused, tapping the pen against her lip. The words felt too raw, too exposed. She flipped to a new page and began sketching the mango tree instead, letting the lines distract her from the ache in her chest.

Inside, the house began to wake. Her mother’s slippers shuffled across the floor, the kettle whistled, and Clarisse’s voice rang out in a sleepy groan. Malliah closed her journal and stood, brushing off her skirt. She wasn’t ready to explain the weight in her heart—not to her mother, not to Clarisse, and certainly not to herself.

Later that afternoon, Joshua returned. Clarisse had invited him to help with the final touches of their project—a poster presentation on local architecture. Malliah stayed in her room, pretending to read, but her ears were tuned to every sound.

At one point, she heard Joshua ask, “Is Malliah around?”

Clarisse’s voice was casual. “She’s probably buried in a book somewhere. She’s always like that.”

Joshua didn’t respond, but Malliah imagined his expression. Thoughtful. Maybe a little disappointed.

She waited until the house was quiet again before venturing out. Joshua was gone. Clarisse was in her room, humming to herself. Malliah walked to the living room and saw the poster on the table—neatly done, with sketches and notes in Joshua’s handwriting.

She traced one of the lines with her finger, then noticed a small scrap of paper tucked beneath the poster. She pulled it out and read the words:

“The quiet ones often have the loudest hearts.”

No name. No explanation. But she knew it was from him.

She folded the note carefully and placed it inside her journal.

That night, she sat on the bamboo bench again, the stars scattered like secrets overhead. She didn’t cry. She didn’t smile. She simply sat, letting the silence speak for her.

The days that followed passed like pages in a book Malliah didn’t want to finish. Joshua came by once more to drop off the final version of the project. Clarisse greeted him with her usual sparkle, but Malliah stayed in her room, listening to the muffled voices and the occasional burst of laughter.

She didn’t know why she avoided him. Maybe it was fear—of being seen too clearly, or not seen at all. Maybe it was the ache of knowing he was leaving, and that whatever had stirred between them would be buried beneath time and distance.

On the morning of his departure, Malliah woke before sunrise. The house was still, the sky a soft gray. She walked to the bamboo bench and sat with her journal, unsure what to write. Her thoughts felt too big for words.

She heard footsteps behind her and turned. Joshua stood there, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his expression unreadable.

“I was hoping I’d find you here,” he said.

Malliah nodded, her throat tight.

“I wanted to give you something.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a small envelope. “Don’t open it now. Just… someday.”

She took it, her fingers trembling.

“I don’t know what the future holds,” he said. “But I know this—meeting you changed something in me. I don’t know how to explain it. You didn’t say much, but you didn’t have to.”

Malliah blinked back tears. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

He smiled, then turned and walked away.

Malliah sat there long after he was gone, the envelope resting in her lap. She didn’t open it. Not that day. Not for years.

Instead, she tucked it into her journal, between pages filled with dreams and sketches and fragments of herself. And as the sun rose over San Rafael, she whispered a silent goodbye to the boy who had seen her—not as Clarisse’s sister, not as the quiet girl behind the books, but as Malliah.

And that made all the difference.