🔴 PART 1 – THE LULLABY NOT MEANT FOR THE LIVING
By day, the canals near Pagsanjan are filled with laughter, alcohol, and brightly painted bangka boats gliding across the water.
But when the sun goes down, the waterways change their voice.
The water darkens.
Not because of the lack of light—
but because it stops reflecting.
Locals follow an unwritten rule:
During a full moon, don’t stay near the water.
And if you hear singing— don’t look for its source.
Mateo didn’t know.
Or maybe he did… but didn’t believe it.
He came to the canals to earn money with his guitar, playing love songs for tourists in exchange for a few pesos and polite nods. He didn’t notice the eyes of the old boatmen— the way they lingered on him longer than necessary.
One elderly rower asked him once,
“Did anyone sing you to sleep when you were a child?”
Mateo gave an awkward smile.
“I don’t remember.”
The old man nodded, as if expecting that answer.
“Then you’ll hear it soon.”
That night, under a full moon, Mateo stayed late.
The fog rose quickly. Not from a distance.
It seeped straight up from the water, thick and cold, like the breath of something sleeping beneath the surface.
The first sound to disappear was the city.
The last sound to fade…
was the feeling of safety.
Then the singing began.
No words.
No rise or fall.
Just a long, steady lullaby—
a sound that should not exist where there are no children.
Mateo realized he was already in a boat.
He couldn’t remember climbing in.
He rowed through the fog without losing his way, as if the canal itself were guiding him. He drifted past Animas Islet, where old charms, broken toys, and dolls hung from the trees, clacking together with a dry sound—like teeth knocking.
Then he saw the black boat.
No lantern.
No ripple in the water.
A woman in a white dress sat inside… singing.
When the sound reached Mateo’s ears, a thought froze his blood:
This lullaby was not meant for him.
So why could he hear it?
🔴 PART 2 – THE CHILDREN WHO WERE NEVER CALLED BY NAME
The black boat floated in the fog.
The woman never turned around—
yet Mateo knew… she was aware of him.
As she sang, memories that were not his flooded his mind:
a child,
a small boat,
and water closing over everything.
Mateo trembled.
“I’m not your child.”
The singing stopped.
The water stirred.
A voice rose from beneath the boat:
“Are you sure you weren’t that child?”
This was no longer folklore.
In that moment, Mateo understood:
The lullaby does not search for the dead.
It searches for children who were abandoned while still alive.
🔴 PART 3 – WHEN THE ECHO NO LONGER NEEDS TO SEARCH
The song Mateo wrote after that night became famous.
People say that when they listen to it after midnight,
they feel as if someone is standing very close behind them—
not touching,
just listening.
Mateo could no longer sleep during full-moon nights.
He always woke at exactly one in the morning.
And in the dark room, soft and steady…
someone was humming him to sleep.
Years later, Mateo returned to Laguna de Bay. In daylight. Just to look at the water.
An old boatman recognized him.
“You heard it, didn’t you?”
Mateo nodded.
The man whispered,
“The Echo doesn’t stop when it’s heard.”
“It stops when… it no longer needs to search.”
That night, Mateo slept near the canal.
At one a.m., he woke.
The lullaby was right beside his bed.
And for the first time…
there were words:
“You’re home now.”
🔴 FINAL PART – THE SONG THAT DOESN’T NEED LISTENERS
The next morning, the room was empty.
No signs of struggle.
No trace.
Only the guitar remained—
its strings trembling faintly,
as if someone had just brushed them.
Out on the water, an old bangka drifted silently.
No boatman.
No color.
And if you stand still long enough…
you’ll hear
a new lullaby.
No one ever found Mateo Reyes.
The police filed the case as a disappearance.
No body.
No clues.
Only one strange detail.
From that night on, the boatmen of Laguna de Bay began hearing two overlapping sounds in the fog.
One was the familiar lullaby— slow, sorrowful, without words.
The other…
was not a love song.
Not Mateo’s famous melody.
It was a few simple guitar chords.
Like a child who doesn’t yet know how to play, testing the strings.
Some say that on full-moon nights, if you remain still by the water long enough, you’ll see the black boat drift past.
This time…
there is more than one person aboard.
A woman in white is singing.
And across from her—
a man sits with his head bowed, playing guitar in silence.
They don’t look at each other.
They don’t look at you.
As if you…
were never there at all.
Locals have begun whispering a new saying:
The song no longer searches for the lost child.
It has found someone to sing in their place.
And if one night
you hear a lullaby that feels strangely familiar…
Don’t listen more closely.
Don’t try to separate the singing from the guitar.
Because maybe…
it’s only rehearsing for you.