Rain arrived softly over Tacloban, not in anger but in patience, tapping against the capiz windows of the Villareal house as though determined to be let inside.

Petra de Alcaraz sat beside the open window in the upstairs sala with a towel folded over her lap and three uncorked perfume bottles arranged carefully beside her notebook. The electric lamp above her shoulder flickered faintly whenever the wind shifted. Outside, the street had gone nearly quiet except for the occasional creak of carriage wheels passing through wet mud and the distant murmur of men unloading cargo near the waterfront.

The house slept in layers.

Somewhere downstairs, Tio Benito snored with the stubborn rhythm of an old engine refusing retirement. From the kitchen came the faint metallic sounds of Severina securing pots before bed. The door closed softly in the servants’ quarters. Then stillness returned again, warm and damp and breathing.

Petra dipped her pen into the ink.

Tacloban, after a downpour, smells different from Manila, she wrote. Manila smells like stones trying to remember the sea. Tacloban smells like the sea refusing to leave.

She paused, reread the sentence, and frowned.

Too dramatic.

Ladia would mock her for it.