My name is Andres. It has been five years since my wife died in an accident — and even now, I am still in pain and cannot forget. She will always be my one and only wife.
The day she died, we were driving together to the Dangwa Market in Manila. September in the capital brings heavy rains, and the streets become flooded and dangerous. I remember the screams, the crash, the smell of gasoline and wet earth. I survived. She did not.
Since then, I haven’t driven a car, nor have I laughed like before. And above all, I have not loved again.
Sometimes, at night, the wind shakes the windows of my workshop in Intramuros, and I think I hear Luningning’s voice. Not the voice of memory, but something deeper, more real. As if she were there, on the other side of the glass.
— Andres…
Then I get up, open the door, and look out at the cobblestone street shrouded in morning mist. No one is there. Only the rustle of leaves and the distant barking of dogs.
I tell myself it’s just loneliness playing tricks on me. But on some nights, I can feel her presence so clearly, so vividly, that I swear I could reach out and touch it.
One day in November, as the city began preparing for Undas (All Saints’ Day), a young woman came to my workshop. She was around thirty, with black hair and large, serene eyes. Her name was Maria Rosal.
“Are you Don Andres, the carpenter?” she asked me.
“Yes, I am. How can I help you?”
“I need an altar. A special altar, for my mother. She passed away recently. I want something that will last… something that has a soul.”
The way she spoke moved me. I promised to make it before November 1st.
In the following days, I worked with a focus I had not felt since Luningning’s death. Carving wood became a sacred language once more. In every line of the altar, in every curve of the incense holder, I felt my hands rediscover purpose.
Maria Rosal came every afternoon with flowers, candles, and buko pie. She spoke little, but whenever she did, her voice brought a sense of peace.
One afternoon, she told me that her mother had also died in an accident. Since then, she said, her soul had not found rest.
“My grandmother said that during these days, when the dead return, you must speak to them. If you don’t call them, they will get lost,” she said while arranging some candles.
I didn’t reply. But that night, when I closed the workshop, I left a candle burning for Luningning. And deep in my heart, I missed her so much — wishing for just one thing…
Undas began with the scent of sampaguita (Philippine jasmine) and marigolds. The streets were filled with music, traditional paper cuttings, and laughter. Everyone was preparing small altars, offering food, water, and candles to their departed loved ones. I hadn’t intended to join, but something urged me to do so.
I lit a candle in front of an old photo of Luningning: she was at a beach in Palawan, laughing as the wind blew her hair. I placed bread, lambanog, and a bouquet of orange flowers.
“If what they say is true,” I whispered, “come back, my love. Even if just for a moment.”
The candle flickered. Outside, the wind shifted. Silence enveloped the room.
Then I saw her.
At first, a shadow, then a clear figure. Luningning was there, at the doorway, wearing the white dress she had worn on our wedding day. She was smiling.
— Andres… stop crying.
I was frozen. I didn’t know if it was a dream, a hallucination, or a miracle, but the feeling was real. I could smell the jasmine and feel her warmth.
“I can’t,” I said, trembling. “I don’t know how to live without you.”
“Yes, you do. You just forgot.”
She stepped closer and touched my cheek. Her hand was warm, though I knew it shouldn’t be.
— Live for yourself, Andres. Live for me, too.
And before I could respond, she vanished like dew under the morning sun.
For weeks, I didn’t tell anyone what had happened. But since that night, something had changed. The air seemed fresher. The gloomy days felt less heavy.
A few days later, Maria Rosal returned to the workshop.
“The altar looks beautiful,” she said. “My mother visited me. I could feel it.”
I smiled, and she understood without any explanation.
From then on, we began to meet more often. Not out of love, at least not at first, but out of friendship. She shared stories of her childhood in Pampanga, and I fixed things around her home. Sometimes we walked together at sunset, across rice fields and beneath the green mountains.
One afternoon, as I watched the sun set behind the Sierra Madre mountains, I boldly asked,
“Can the dead forgive us?”
She answered without hesitation:
“They have nothing to forgive. They just want us never to stop living.”
Her words pierced me. That night, for the first time in five years, I slept without nightmares.
Time passed, like the Pasig River quietly flowing. Maria Rosal and I made no promises, and we did not try to replace anyone. We simply shared silences, glances, joyful days, and sorrowful ones.
One day, while carving a statue for a church in Laguna, I noticed something strange: the wood smelled different, like flowers. I looked up at the ceiling and saw a white butterfly resting on the window frame. Luningning had often said that butterflies were messengers of the soul.
I smiled.
In that moment, I knew I was no longer alone. That love, though it may change form, would never die.
The following year, on Undas, I placed two photos on the altar: one of Luningning and one of Maria Rosal’s mother. She placed the flowers, and I lit the candles. Together we remained silent as the incense smoke rose to the sky.
At the back of the workshop, hanging on the wall, was the first altar I had made for Luningning. Sometimes I touched it to remember. But now it no longer hurt as it once did.
Sometimes, when night falls and the wind blows through the mountains again, I seem to hear her voice:
— Andres… you are where you are meant to be.
And I close my eyes, breathe in the warm Philippine air, and quietly reply:
— Thank you, my love.
Because finally, I understood that death is not the end, but only another way to continue loving. It does not erase memories or feelings; it transforms them into something gentler and more enduring. Every remaining moment, every breath of life, is a reminder that love persists, even if its form changes. And it is because of that that my heart can open once more, ready to embrace new things without fear of loss.