Except one man.
Ramon dela Cruz was crouched beneath a jeepney across the street when he heard the blast. Grease stained his hands, his shirt, his face—evidence of a life spent fixing what others abandoned. He looked up just in time to see flames licking the underside of the sedan and a woman pounding on the window from inside.
He did not hesitate.
Ramon dropped his tools and ran.
The heat hit him before he reached the car, scorching his arms, biting into his skin. Smoke burned his eyes, but through it he saw the mother—her face streaked with tears, one hand clawing at the backseat.
“The children!” she screamed.
Ramon yanked at the rear door. It wouldn’t open.
Gasoline dripped onto the pavement, sizzling as it met the fire.
Someone yelled, “Sumabog na ‘yan!”—It’s going to explode.
Ramon braced his shoulder and slammed into the door again. Pain shot through him. The metal bent, just enough. He ripped it open and was hit with a wall of smoke so thick he almost fell back.
Inside, the twins were strapped into their car seats, faces red, eyes squeezed shut, crying for air.
Ramon reached in, ignoring the way the flames crawled closer. He fumbled with the first buckle, fingers slick with sweat and grease, and tore the child free. The baby clung to his shirt, coughing.
Ramon handed the child to a woman who had finally stepped forward, her hands shaking as she took him.
“Isa pa!” Ramon shouted. One more.
The fire roared, hungry now.
He leaned back into the car, the heat blistering his skin, and ripped the second child from the seat just as the windshield cracked with a sound like gunfire. Ramon staggered back, clutching the baby to his chest.
The explosion came seconds later.
Flames burst outward, throwing Ramon to the ground. The air filled with screams, smoke, sirens.
When he opened his eyes, everything hurt.
He coughed, rolling onto his side, searching the chaos with blurred vision. He saw the twins—alive, crying, held by strangers. He saw Maria on her knees, clutching them both, sobbing into their hair.
Only then did Ramon let himself go still.
He woke up in a public hospital, the smell of antiseptic replacing smoke. His arms were wrapped in gauze, his chest aching with every breath.
A woman sat beside his bed.
Maria Santos looked smaller now, her face pale, eyes red, but when she saw him stir, she pressed her hands together and bowed her head.
“Salamat,” she whispered. Thank you.
Ramon tried to wave it off, embarrassed. “Anyone would have done it.”
She shook her head. “No one did. Only you.”
Word spread quickly.
By the next day, Ramon’s name was on the radio. A short video of the rescue circulated online—grainy, shaky, undeniable. People called him a hero. They praised his courage, his heart.
Ramon returned to his corner on Aurora Boulevard days later, bandages hidden beneath long sleeves. His toolbox waited where he’d left it. Life, it seemed, was ready to move on.
But something had changed.
Customers came who did not bargain. Vendors brought him food. A barangay official stopped by, promising assistance. Someone taped a small handwritten sign above his workspace:
“Salamat, Kuya Ramon.”
One afternoon, Maria returned.
She brought the twins, dressed in matching shirts, their laughter bright against the noise of the street. She handed Ramon an envelope.
“I can’t repay you,” she said softly. “But I can help you start again.”
Inside was enough money to fix his shop—to turn his patch of sidewalk into something permanent.
Ramon hesitated, then nodded.
Months later, a small sign hung above a newly painted stall: DELA CRUZ AUTO REPAIR.
Every afternoon, Ramon worked beneath it, the sound of traffic and laughter around him. Sometimes, Maria passed by with her sons, waving. Sometimes, Ramon caught himself smiling for no reason at all.
On Aurora Boulevard, where fire once tried to steal everything, life went on—scarred, imperfect, and unexpectedly beautiful.