The sky sagged with gray weight, heavy with secrets and the promise of rain. Dolores pressed forward along the muddy path, her cane digging into the wet soil with each labored step. Every breath was a rattle. Every movement, a negotiation between will and weakness.
Her doctor’s words echoed in her mind like a curse: “Your heart is failing, Doña Dolores. You need the operation soon—or it will be too late.”
But surgery meant money—tens of thousands of pesos she didn’t have.
Only one person could help her now.
Her son. Ramón.
Once, he had clung to her skirts as a boy, crying when thunder rolled. Now he was a man of wealth—a businessman with a shining car and a house so large it could swallow her entire village. Surely, he would not let her die.
When she reached the gates of his estate, the drizzle had turned to rain. She pressed the buzzer, heart pounding not just from exhaustion but dread.
The gate opened, and Ramón’s wife appeared, immaculate in a white blouse and gold earrings. Her expression flickered with discomfort. “Nanay Dolores?” she said, half-whispering. “What are you doing here, in this weather?”
“I came to see my son,” Dolores said softly. “I need his help.”
A moment later, Ramón appeared—tie loosened, phone in hand, irritation already etched into his brow. “Mom? What is it? I’m in the middle of work.”
Dolores held out her crumpled medical papers with trembling fingers. “The doctors say… I need surgery. My heart—”
He sighed. “Mom, please. Business is tight. You have no idea how hard this year’s been.”
Her eyes glistened. “I’m not asking for much, anak. Just enough for the hospital.”
He looked at his wife, then back at her. His tone softened, but only a little. “Mom, you always worry too much. Here.” He went to his car and rummaged through the trunk. “Take these.”
He returned with a small pack of instant noodles. “Eat something hot tonight. I’ll send money when I can. I promise.”
He smiled—polite, distant—and closed the gate before she could respond.
The rain came down harder, washing the mud from her shoes but not the ache in her chest.
Dolores walked home in silence, the pack of noodles clutched like something sacred. The wind howled across the fields, whispering her name through the trees.
By the time she reached her hut, she was drenched and shivering. Her tiny home creaked against the storm, the candlelight trembling on the wall. She set the noodles down on her worn wooden table and exhaled, half in relief, half in exhaustion.
“Maybe he really is struggling,” she murmured. “He wouldn’t have given me this if he didn’t care.”
She filled her pot with water and set it on the stove. As it began to boil, she opened the packet.
That’s when she noticed it.
The noodles were unusually light—too light. Inside the packet, beneath the dry curls of ramen, was something else: a small, sealed envelope.
Her fingers shook as she drew it out. The envelope was thin, pale, and slightly damp from the rain. On its surface, in familiar handwriting, was her name:
“Nanay.”
Her heart began to race.
Inside the envelope were ten crisp 1,000-peso bills—and a folded note.
Mom, if you’re reading this, I need you to listen carefully.
Don’t go to the hospital in San Pedro. Don’t trust Dr. Valdez. Don’t tell anyone you found this. Burn this letter after reading.
I’ll come for you soon.
— Ramón.
Dolores blinked. The room seemed to tilt around her.
She read the letter again. Don’t trust Dr. Valdez? He was the one who’d given her diagnosis—the one who said she would die without surgery.
A deep unease crawled through her chest. She’d never told Ramón which hospital she’d gone to, yet somehow he knew.
She turned the envelope over in her hands and felt something else inside—a small plastic card. She slipped it out and froze.
It was an identification badge.
“RAMÓN VILLAFUERTE, DECEASED – RECORDS DIVISION, ST. LUKE’S MEDICAL CENTER.”
The photo showed her son smiling, younger, hair shorter. The issue date was two years ago.
And below it, stamped in red:
“DECEASED – APRIL 16, 2021.”
Dolores dropped the card. It clattered to the floor.
Her pulse thundered in her ears. What kind of joke was this? She had just seen him. He had just spoken to her.
She stumbled to the door and flung it open. The rain was heavier now, turning the yard into a swamp of mud and shadows. Across the fields, faint headlights glowed through the storm—someone approaching along the dirt road.
Her heart leapt. “Ramón?” she whispered, clutching the letter.
The headlights stopped outside her gate. The engine went quiet. Then came a knock—three slow raps on the wooden door.
She hesitated. “Ramón?” she called again.
No answer. Just the rain.
She stepped closer and pressed her ear to the door. A low voice murmured, almost pleading.
“Nanay… open up. It’s me.”
Her trembling hand reached for the latch.
When the door creaked open, the figure standing there wasn’t her son.
It was Dr. Valdez.
He looked drenched, his white coat clinging to his frame, his expression unreadable.
“Dolores,” he said, his voice tight. “You shouldn’t have come back here. Where’s the letter?”
Her stomach turned to ice. “You—how do you know—?”
He took a step forward. “Because Ramón told me you might find it.”
She backed away. “He told me not to trust you!”
Dr. Valdez sighed. “You misunderstood. Ramón wasn’t well. He became paranoid before he died. We were trying to help him.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a syringe. “Your heart is fragile, Dolores. Let me help you.”
“No!” she shouted, stumbling backward.
Then, from behind Valdez, a flash of lightning illuminated the fields—and in that instant, she saw another figure standing in the rain.
It was Ramón.
Soaked to the bone, face pale, eyes hollow. He raised his hand slowly and pointed straight at the doctor.
“Run, Nanay.”
The lights flickered out.
There was a crash, a shout, and the door slammed shut. Dolores fell to the floor, clutching her chest as darkness swallowed the room.
When the neighbors found her the next morning, she was unconscious but alive. The house was ransacked, the doctor’s car abandoned in the mud.
On the table sat the envelope. Inside were the same bills—now stained with something dark—and a new note, written in trembling ink.
You’re safe now, Nanay. The heart you carry isn’t weak—it’s mine.
— Ramón.
Weeks later, when Dolores awoke in the hospital, the nurse smiled kindly. “You’re recovering well, Doña. The surgery was a success. The donor heart was a perfect match.”
Dolores blinked. “Donor?”
The nurse nodded. “Yes. From a young man named Ramón Villafuerte. Died two years ago. You’re very lucky.”
Dolores turned toward the window. Outside, the storm had cleared. The world shimmered clean and new—but somewhere deep in her chest, her heart beat to another rhythm.
One that wasn’t entirely her own.