During a business trip to Cebu, I suddenly ran into my ex-wife. And after a wild, impulsive night, when I saw that red stain on the blanket… I froze.
The last days of November in Cebu always feel damp—soft drizzles, the scent of wet pine, and a kind of chill that seeps straight into a man’s bones.
And me… I was there on a three-day official trip, reviewing a new resort project being built near Tagaytay Ridge.
It was around eleven at night.
The hotel bar was almost empty—just slow jazz humming from an old speaker in the corner and the clinking of ice in my whiskey glass.
I sat in the loneliest corner of the room, swirling my drink, staring at the fog-covered glass wall outside.
Then the heavy wooden door creaked open, letting in a gust of air—rain, cold… and a faint whiff of a fragrance I knew too well.
I lifted my head.
And then… I froze.
A woman stood at the entrance, shaking rain off her beige overcoat.
Her long black hair—slightly curled at the ends—clung to her damp shoulders.
She paused to say something to the waiter, and under the warm yellow light, I saw her side-profile—sharp, calm, painfully familiar.
It was Lia.
My ex-wife.
Four years later.
Four years since we signed the divorce papers.
Four years since she picked up her suitcase and walked away—without looking back even once.
I thought I had forgotten her.
But the truth was, the memories had only been asleep… waiting for a moment like this.
Maybe she felt the intensity of my gaze.
Lia turned.
Our eyes met.
I held my breath.
What would her reaction be? Shock? Anger? Hatred?
But no.
Her eyes were calm—like a deep, still lake.
She nodded gently, smiled… and with her glass of red wine, walked straight to my table.
“Is this seat taken?”
Her voice was a little deeper than before, but still carried that same familiar warmth.
I stumbled to my feet. “L-Lia… yeah, of course. Sit.”
We began talking.
She brushed aside all past bitterness with one single sentence:
“Let’s not reopen old wounds tonight. Just two travelers… who happened to end up in the same place.”
There was something in her eyes—something pulling, drowning, dangerous.
As the alcohol began to work, my regrets and my old longing—everything stirred again.
Then suddenly, she looked straight into my eyes and asked:
“Marco… are you happy?”
After I gave her the honest answer, she squeezed my hand—warm, steady, inviting.
“Room 1104.
Right above yours.”
Her voice was softer than a whisper.
—
The next morning.
Sharp sunlight slipped through the gap in the curtains and hit my face.
I woke with a jolt.
My head throbbed painfully.
Instinctively, I reached to the side—
But there was nothing there.
The sheets were cold.
The room was silent.
And… Lia was nowhere to be found.
Not a single trace of her.
Not even a thread from her clothes.
As if she had never been there at all.
As if the night itself had breathed her in and erased her.
Panicking, I stood up quickly, got dressed—thinking maybe I’d find her downstairs.
But then my eyes fell on the bed.
Right there…
Exactly where she had lain that night…
On the white blanket…
A deep… thick… red stain…
A stain enough to stop my breath.
It was—
My throat tightened.
For a moment, all I could do was stare at that thick, dark red smear on the white blanket—too deep to be wine, too heavy to be lipstick.
Blood.
It could only be blood.
My heart hammered violently, hitting against my ribs like it wanted to burst out.
“Lia… what the hell happened?”
I forced myself closer, kneeling beside the bed. The stain wasn’t splattered—it wasn’t the shape of an injury or an accident. It was a single, deliberate smear. As if someone had dragged… or placed something there.
My hands trembled as I touched the fabric.
Cold.
Drying.
Hours old.
Last night replayed in flashes—her laughing, leaning against me, her warm breath on my neck, her fingers gripping my shoulder, the way her body trembled against mine…
Everything had felt normal. Alive. Real.
But this—
This felt like a message.
I grabbed my phone. 7:12 AM.
I scrolled through my call log, my messages—nothing from her. Not a single trace she’d ever been with me.
It was impossible.
Unless she wanted it that way.
I bolted out of the room, took the elevator two floors up, and stopped in front of Room 1104—hers.
Or what she claimed was hers.
I knocked.
No answer.
I knocked again, louder.
Nothing.
A housekeeper rounded the corner, pushing a cart filled with fresh towels. I turned to her, breathless.
“Miss, the guest in 1104—Lia—did she check out? Did you see her this morning?”
She blinked, confused.
“Sir, 1104 has been empty for two weeks. No one checked in last night.”
For a moment, the hallway spun.
“That’s not possible,” I whispered. “I was there. Last night. With her.”
The housekeeper gave a polite, uncomfortable smile—the kind people give to someone who sounds unwell—and walked away.
I pressed my forehead against the door of the empty room, trying to breathe.
Was I hallucinating?
No.
The scent of her perfume still clung to my skin. The warmth of her touch still lingered in my palms. And the red stain… that was real.
Something had happened.
To her.
Or to me.
I returned to my room and called the front desk.
“Can you check if a guest named Lia Velasco checked in yesterday?”
“Sir,” the receptionist replied gently, “we have no guest by that name.”
I closed my eyes.
Something was wrong. Deeply, impossibly wrong.
And then—
My phone buzzed.
A new text.
Unknown number.
“Room 021. Basement. Come alone.”
My heartbeat froze, then erupted.
It couldn’t be her. Could it?
Logic told me to call security.
Instinct told me to run.
But something deeper—something older—pulled me like a rope around my chest.
Lia.
I went.
The basement level looked nothing like the polished floors above.
Dim fluorescent lights flickered. Pipes groaned overhead. The air smelled of detergent and rust.
Room 021 was at the far end—its door old, metal, and slightly dented.
I hesitated, hand hovering near the knob.
Then slowly… I pushed it open.
Inside was a storage room—piles of old mattresses, broken chairs, extra linens.
And standing in the middle of the room—
Lia.
She was wearing the same clothes from last night.
Her hair was damp again, as if she had walked through rain.
Her expression was unreadable.
“Lia.”
My voice cracked. “What’s going on? What happened to you? Why was there—”
She raised a finger to her lips.
“Close the door.”
I did.
She stepped closer, her voice low.
“Marco, listen carefully. We don’t have much time.”
“Time for what?”
“To explain why I disappeared four years ago.”
My breath hitched.
“I thought you left because our marriage fell apart.”
She shook her head.
“No. It wasn’t because of you. And not because of us.”
Then she looked around the empty storage room as if expecting someone—or something—to be listening.
“Back then,” she continued, “I discovered something at my workplace—something illegal, dangerous. It involved powerful people. I didn’t know who to trust. And the moment they realized I knew… I became a target.”
I stared at her, cold dread rising through my chest.
“And last night?” I whispered. “Why did you come to me after all these years?”
Her voice trembled, just a little.
“Because you were never supposed to be part of this. And now you are.”
Before I could respond, a metallic click echoed behind me.
I spun around.
Three men stood at the doorway.
Black clothes.
Gloves.
No expressions.
The tallest one spoke.
“Lia. Step away from him.”
My blood turned to ice.
She didn’t move.
I grabbed her arm. “Lia, what the hell is happening?”
Her eyes met mine—full of regret and something else… something like sorrow.
“I’m sorry, Marco. They found us.”
The men stepped forward.
I acted before thinking—shoving Lia behind me, kicking a broken chair toward the nearest man. It slowed him for barely a second. A fist slammed into my ribs, sending me crashing into a stack of old mattresses.
Lia shouted, “Stop! Don’t hurt him!”
Another blow landed against my jaw. Darkness clouded my vision. A gloved hand grabbed my collar—
Then suddenly—
A thunderous alarm blared through the basement.
The men cursed.
A red emergency light flashed overhead.
Lia grabbed my hand. “Run!”
We stumbled through the hallway, past rows of old equipment. Every breath burned. Behind us, footsteps thundered closer.
At the exit door, she pushed me out first. We burst into the hotel loading bay, the morning sun blinding.
“Where are we going?” I gasped.
“Somewhere they can’t reach us,” she said.
But before we could take another step—
A gunshot cracked the air.
I froze.
Lia crumpled.
“No. No, no—Lia!” I caught her before she hit the ground, my hands sliding against her back—
Warm.
Wet.
Red.
Her blood.
The same red from the blanket.
I pressed my hand against the wound. “Stay with me. Please. Don’t you dare—”
She touched my face, her fingers trembling.
“Marco… I shouldn’t have come back. But I had to see you. One last time.”
“Don’t talk like that,” I choked. “You’re not dying. I’m getting help—”
“No.”
Her grip tightened.
“You need to leave. Now. They’ll kill you if you stay.”
“Lia—”
Her eyes softened with a sadness I had never seen before.
“Do you remember what I told you last night? That you asked if I was happy?”
I nodded painfully.
“I lied,” she whispered. “I wasn’t happy. Not once. Not after leaving you.”
My heart tore open.
She tried to smile, but a drop of blood escaped her lips.
“I loved you, Marco. I always did.”
Her hand slipped from my cheek.
Her chest stilled.
The world stopped.
I held her there, in the quiet loading bay, as her blood soaked into my shirt, as her last warmth faded from my arms.
For a long time, I couldn’t move.
Couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t accept the truth.
She had come back into my life like a storm—sudden, fierce—and left just as violently.
The men were gone.
The sirens silent.
And I was left with only one thing:
That same red stain.
But this time, it wasn’t a mystery.
It was a goodbye.
Two weeks later.
I sat on a cliff in Tagaytay, overlooking the lake.
Lia’s necklace—the one she always wore—rested in my palm. They found it in her pocket. No ID. No phone. No explanation.
Just the necklace.
Officials ruled it a “robbery gone wrong.”
I knew better.
I wore the necklace around my neck, feeling its weight like a promise.
A soft breeze brushed past me.
For a moment, I could almost smell her perfume—warm, gentle, fleeting.
“Goodbye, Lia,” I whispered.
The wind carried the words away.
And for the first time in years…
I let her go.