The air of February 2021 carried a stillness that was both eerie and familiar. The pandemic still gripped the world, and though restrictions had relaxed slightly in Carmela's quiet provincial hometown, there was no mistaking the unease that lingered. Vaccines were just beginning to trickle into urban centers, but here in the province, they were still little more than a promise.
For Carmela, February wasn't just another page in the pandemic timeline. She will be turning twenty-one in a few months, a significant age in many ways. But what made it monumental was the quiet clarity that came with it. While many around her were simply surviving the times, Carmela was planting seeds for a future she knew would bear fruit—because she'd lived through this once before.
The lotto winnings from 2008, which she and her sister Cassie had carefully tucked away and hidden, had long been put to use. But the true miracle wasn't just the money itself—it was how Carmela, using the wisdom from her previous life, knew exactly when and where to place it. She had bought Bitcoins shortly after their launch, when no one in her circle even knew what cryptocurrency meant. Over the years, she diversified her investments into stocks, foreign exchange, and global mutual funds.
Cassie was the only person who had the slightest idea. Even then, she only knew about the initial prize money and nothing more. She believed Carmela had simply turned it into modest savings through prudent budgeting and used most for funding the business of the family. Her parents and two older brothers had no clue. Kuya Alex, the eldest, had become a respected high school teacher. His days were structured around classes and lesson plans. Kuya Vin, with a degree in Computer Science, had taken over the family business and managed the store's expansion into online markets. Both were diligent and grounded, but Carmela had taken a different path—one paved with foresight, patience, and silent strategy.
Money, for Carmela, was never a measure of status. It was a tool, a responsibility. The less others knew about her resources, the freer she was to use them meaningfully.
"Carmela, kain na! (Carmela, it's time to eat!)," her mother called from the kitchen.
"Coming po!" she replied, gently closing her laptop that displayed graphs and analytics.
Over dinner, the conversation revolved around barangay gossip, rising prices of basic goods, and the possible arrival of vaccines. Her parents were hopeful but tired. Carmela chimed in casually, careful not to reveal the financial fortress she'd built behind the curtain of normalcy.
After helping clean up, she went back to her room where her second life truly thrived. The quiet hum of her laptop, the click of her wireless mouse, and the handwritten notes on her desk formed the heartbeat of her nightly rituals.
Her phone lit up with a message from Raziel.
**Raziel:** "Hey, were you serious about that date? Or was that just another 'someday'?"
Carmela smiled.
**Carmela:** "I said 'someday' but I didn't say 'never.'"
**Raziel:** "That's not a 'no'."
**Carmela:** "It's a 'yes', for when it's safe."
**Raziel:** "I'll wait, always have."
The warmth that filled her chest was new but not unfamiliar. Raziel had waited years, never pushing, always present. In a timeline where everything was volatile, his constancy had become one of her quiet comforts.
The next morning, Carmela revised her financial strategy. She sold a fraction of her Bitcoin holdings, careful not to trigger attention. The returns were redirected toward tech companies she knew would thrive post-pandemic—cloud service providers, healthcare logistics firms, and renewable energy start-ups.
She created another trust fund, this one under a pseudonym, to eventually support local education initiatives in her town. One day, she wanted to build a learning center that doubled as a tech hub for rural students. But her rule was clear: never let it be traced back to her.
Later that afternoon, Raziel sent her a picture of a small lakeside café with an open patio. "When the world opens again," the caption read.
Carmela saved it to her "someday" folder.
She rang Cassie.
"Ate, remember that account we opened in 2008?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Just checking in. I moved some funds to a different channel for security. I also set up a fund for the kids and retirement fund for our parents. It'll just look like regular savings. No need to explain."
"Mel, I don't know what you're doing, but thank you. And as always, I trust you."
"That's all I need."
Carmela ended the call and took a walk to clear her mind. The landscape was green and quiet. Farmers still worked their fields, and carabaos pulled carts as they had for generations. She passed the small bamboo hut from her childhood and imagined what it could be: a reading nook, a studio, maybe even a tiny tech space for coding tutorials.
Back in her room, she picked up her journal. Writing had remained her faithful companion. She penned a letter to herself:
*To Future Me,*
*If you're reading this, you probably survived more than you thought you could. Remember that silence is power when used with purpose. And love? Let it grow, even if it starts as something small.*
She sealed the letter and placed it in her memory box.
Days passed like the rhythm of waves—steady, reflective. She used the lull in academic pressure to enroll in additional online certifications in financial analysis and data security. Her goal was clear: to be indispensable in an increasingly digital world.
One evening, Raziel called.
"Hey," he said softly.
"Hey."
"Just wanted to hear your voice."
"Why?"
"Because sometimes silence isn't enough."
They talked for hours. About life, the future, regrets they no longer feared. When she finally hung up, the smile on her face lingered.
By the end of the month, she submitted a business proposal for a virtual learning platform tailored for underprivileged students in rural areas. The pilot version would be free and supported by ad revenue and sponsors. The goal was education equity. The funding? Carefully siphoned from her crypto earnings and funneled through a foundation registered under a fictional benefactor.
That night, she sat under the stars outside their house. Her father joined her.
"Tahimik ka, anak. (You're quiet, child.) Everything okay?"
She nodded. "Just thinking of what comes next."
"You always think far ahead. That's good. But don't forget to rest."
"I will, Papa."
He stood, ruffled her hair, and went inside.
Alone again, Carmela whispered to the stars.
"Whatever happens, I'll protect them all. Even if they never know."
She glanced at the saved image of the café Raziel sent.
"And maybe," she said, smiling, "I'll finally let someone in."
February waned, but Carmela's story was only gathering momentum. The silence of her fortune, her plans, her heart—all these were by design. Because sometimes, the most powerful things were those done in secret, for the right reasons, with love as their quiet architect.