Seven weeks ago, a woman and her daughter went to work in a rubber plantation and went missing. On the 49th day, her husband discovered the horrifying truth…
That morning, the monsoon mist still hung over the slopes. Asha held the hand of her little daughter, Anika, as they walked toward the rubber plantation where they worked. Her husband—Vikram—stood on the small wooden porch of their nipa hut and called out:
“Make sure you return early, ha? Don’t go too far. The weather has been so unpredictable these days.”
Asha smiled and waved. Mother and daughter slowly disappeared behind the rows of tall rubber trees.
They never returned.
As noon passed, Vikram grew restless and began searching for them. He ran through the plantation, shouting their names until his voice turned heavy and cracked. In the dense plantation, only the sound of wind and insects echoed back at him. That night, he and barangay volunteers searched with flashlights until dawn. But there was no trace.
News of the “missing mother and daughter” spread throughout the area. Philippine police, local volunteers, and rescue groups joined the search. They checked every tree, every ravine, every small stream. But aside from faint footprints and a broken muddy trail, nothing else was found.
A week passed. Then two. Then seven.
Hope faded. People whispered:
“Maybe something bad happened…”
“Maybe they’ll never be found…”
Vikram was exhausted. Every day he climbed the hillside calling out the names of his wife and child, and every night he woke up from dreams of little Anika running into his arms—only to open his eyes to a silent, empty home.
By the seventh week, the horrible truth finally revealed itself.
That day, Vikram returned to the familiar land where Asha and her daughter had worked. He noticed one rubber tree covered strangely with rotting leaves. A strange feeling rose inside him. He brushed aside the leaves.
Under the wet soil, he saw a small piece of Asha’s floral dress.
His heartbeat quickened. His hands trembled as he dug deeper.
And when he uncovered a part of a human bone, he collapsed onto his knees.
The hillside erupted with shouts.
Police immediately sealed the area. Forensic examinations confirmed the remains belonged to Asha and her daughter Anika. Their deaths were not caused by animals—there were clear skull fractures caused by blunt force. Someone had killed them and buried them under the rubber tree.
The whole barangay was shaken.
Who had the courage to commit such a crime in this quiet mountain area?
Expanding the investigation, the police found strange motorcycle tire marks and a torn piece of cloth stuck on a branch. These small clues led them to a plantation worker who had a long-standing grudge against Vikram: Bino Cabral.
Bino had been harassing Asha for months, making crude comments and unwanted advances. Asha rejected him and told her husband. Bino grew furious.
On the day of the incident, Bino blocked the pathway on the hillside and tried to force himself on her. Asha resisted. Anika screamed.
Enraged, he snapped—striking both mother and child with a wooden stick, then burying the bodies under the tree. For seven weeks, he lived like nothing had happened… even pretending to help in the search.
The day Bino was handcuffed, the entire barangay burned with anger. Vikram collapsed, too weak to feel rage anymore. He looked up toward the rubber-covered hill—where everything he loved had been buried—and his tears had run dry.
Asha and Anika were laid to rest during a light rain. The small coffin was placed beside the larger one. Heartbreaking cries echoed through the valley. Vikram fell beside the fresh grave and whispered:
“Forgive me… I couldn’t protect you or our child. But the truth is out now. My loves… rest in peace.”
After that, he sold the little land he had and left the mountain barangay. Some said he moved to Cebu to look for work; others believed he went to Manila, trying to escape the memories. No one knew for sure.
But every year, on the anniversary of their deaths, a man quietly returned to the hillside cemetery and placed a bouquet of white flowers on the graves.
The story ends, but the pain remains with those left behind.
Love turns to ash. And grief has no end.