The boy sat on the roof, legs drawn to his chest, the lantern resting beside him.
The stars above were dim tonight, hidden behind a sheet of clouds. From this angle, he could see the entire street—the narrow road, the crooked lamp post, the uneven steps leading to his neighbor's yard. The wind was gentle, brushing through the trees like an old lullaby.
Below, he heard the creak of the window opening.
"You always pick the dramatic spots," Calix said, climbing out beside him with two bottles of soda.
"You always follow me," the boy replied, taking one.
They sat side by side, saying nothing at first. The silence wasn't uncomfortable—it never was with Calix. But tonight, it lingered longer than usual, like both of them were waiting for the other to start unraveling.
Finally, Calix spoke.
"You ever get tired?"
The boy glanced sideways. "Of what?"
"All of it. The weight. The memories. Holding onto things that aren't even yours."
The boy considered it. "Sometimes. But I think… if I don't, no one will."
Calix leaned back on his palms, staring at the sky. "You know, when we were kids, I used to think ghosts were just floating sheets. I didn't know they could feel… forgotten."
The boy looked down at the lantern. "Some of them were never even remembered to begin with."
Calix was quiet for a moment. "You think you're going to find her? Your grandmother?"
"I don't know," the boy admitted. "But I have to keep walking until I do."
Calix nodded.
"I'll walk with you."
The boy smiled faintly.
"I know."
Later that week, the boy pulled out the list again.
• Lanie ✓
• Maria Tan ✓
• Caloy
• [Unclear]
Two names remained. But only one was still visible.
Caloy.
There was no memory to chase this time. No one in the market remembered the name. Even Calix had to admit he'd never heard it before.
"I don't think he lived in the plaza," the boy said. "Maybe somewhere farther out."
So they walked.
Beyond the village. Past the abandoned roadside chapel. Into the neighboring barangay—one lined with narrow alleys, rusted tin roofs, and scattered dogs who barked at every sound.
They followed the lantern's faint glow. Not strong, but steady.
Finally, it pulsed near an old carpentry shed tucked behind an auto shop.
The wooden doors were splintered. One hung off its hinge. Inside, the scent of dust and old nails lingered in the air.
A single workbench sat in the corner.
On it: a name etched into the wood.
Caloy.
The boy ran his hand gently over the carving.
The lantern flared—once, then settled.
A soul had passed here.
They waited for hours.
But the air stayed still.
No figure emerged.
No whisper came.
Just the quiet hum of the lantern, as if waiting.
"He's here," the boy said. "But he won't speak."
"Why not?" Calix asked.
The boy looked down at the name.
"Because he thinks he doesn't deserve to be heard."
That evening, they found an old woman who used to run the carpentry shop's storehouse.
"Caloy?" she repeated. "He was my brother-in-law. Stubborn as a nail. Good hands, though. Built half this town's furniture. Never married."
"What happened to him?" the boy asked.
She hesitated.
"He had a falling out with his older brother. My husband. Haven't spoken in years. Not even when…" She paused. "Well. My husband passed. Caloy never showed up to the wake. We assumed he'd left town."
"But he didn't," the boy murmured.
She looked up at him. "Why are you asking?"
"I want to give him peace."
That night, the boy sat in the shed alone.
Calix waited just outside.
The boy placed the lantern in the center of the workbench. He lit a small candle beside it and rested his palms on the scarred wood where Caloy's name had been carved.
"You stayed," he said. "Even when no one came looking."
The lantern flared again.
"I think you wanted to go. You just didn't know how."
The wind stirred slightly.
And then—
The air shifted.
Not cold. Not sharp. Just… heavy.
And in the doorway, the faint silhouette of a man appeared.
He wore a threadbare shirt and dust-covered pants. His hands were calloused, ghostly replicas of what they once were. His back was hunched, but his eyes—when he finally lifted them—were full of something harder to name.
Shame.
"You knew him," the boy said. "Your brother."
Caloy stepped forward slowly, fingers hovering over the workbench like muscle memory.
"I told him he was soft," he said, voice rough. "That he couldn't run the shop. That he was too trusting."
He clenched his jaw.
"He proved me wrong. Took care of our family when I couldn't. I was too proud to come back."
He looked down.
"I thought… I thought I had time."
The boy stood. "You didn't come to the wake."
Caloy shook his head. "I told myself it was too late. That I'd just make things worse."
"It's not too late now."
"I don't deserve to be remembered."
"That's not your decision," the boy said gently. "He remembered you. Even if he didn't say it."
Caloy closed his eyes. "I carved my name into this bench the day we argued. Told him this shop would always be mine."
He opened his eyes again.
"I never meant for that to be the last thing I left behind."
The lantern flared once more.
Caloy took a slow step toward it.
"Will it hurt?"
"No," the boy whispered. "But it will make you feel everything one last time."
Caloy hesitated.
Then nodded.
He placed his hand on the lantern's base.
The flame pulsed—and then…
Light.
Brief.
Soft.
Final.
When it faded, the shed felt warmer.
Less abandoned.
The boy picked up a chisel from the corner of the bench and pressed it against the wood.
He carved a second name beneath Caloy's:
Ramon.
He didn't know if it was the right name.
But it felt like one that deserved to be next to Caloy's.
Outside, Calix looked up. "Another one?"
The boy nodded.
"We're getting closer," he said.
"To what?" Calix asked.
The boy looked at the lantern.
"I don't know. But I think she left more than names. I think she left a map. One made of people."