It was around 1pm when they both woke up from their sleep after a night had passed. They got everything ready for the day and left for their workplace.
The store buzzed faintly with the low murmur of late-night customers. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead like exhausted stars, casting dull glows over stocked shelves of instant noodles, canned goods, and energy drinks. The hum of the refrigerator units and the soft ping of the sliding doors made up the soundtrack of Aaron San Agustin's night shift.
Lucas, early twenties with sharp eyes and a perpetual coffee mug in hand, sat at the customer counter, scrolling through tabs of cryptocurrency charts and conspiracy forums. He glanced up, spotting Aaron in his periphery—tidying up the counter, his movements calm, deliberate, quiet.
"Hey, Aaron," Lucas called, voice casual but curious.
Aaron looked up, blinking. "Oh, Lucas. Did you need something?"
Lucas tilted his head, watching him. "Nah, just wondering how you're doing. You always look like you're carrying ghosts."
Aaron chuckled dryly, wiping his hands with a rag. "Maybe I am."
Lucas leaned forward. "You ever get tired of this place? The night shifts, the weird customers, this sad music?"
Aaron considered the question, then shrugged. "Not really. It's quiet. Quiet's good."
Lucas wasn't convinced. "You ever think about Crestfall? About going back?"
Aaron's eyes darkened. His lips parted slightly, like a thought had been triggered deep in the vaults of memory. Then, in a breath, the world around him blurred—and he was back.
Flashback: The Night He Left Crestfall
Midnight rain hammered the rusted rooftops of Crestfall, hissing against the warped wood and tin that made up the San Agustin house. Inside, a weak kerosene lamp sputtered in the corner, its flame trembling with every gust of wind that slipped through the cracks in the walls. Shadows danced across the room, tall and distorted like ghosts clinging to the past.
Aaron stood by the door, backpack slung over one shoulder. His shirt clung to his skin, soaked from the storm that had chased him down the hillside. But it wasn't the cold that made him tremble—it was the weight of everything he was about to leave behind.
At the kitchen table, his mother sat slumped forward, her face buried in her arms. Her sobs were muffled but steady, fragile and heartbreaking. Across from her loomed Uncle Fidel, broad-shouldered, eyes bloodshot, and breath soured with cheap liquor. The glass in his hand hit the table with a thud, sloshing remnants of rum over the rim.
"You're really leaving?" Fidel's voice slurred, but his tone was sharp. "Just like your father? Running off to the city like some goddamn prince?"
Aaron didn't flinch. He tightened his grip on the strap of his bag and met his uncle's gaze, calm but unyielding.
"I'm not running," he said, voice low. "I'm choosing to live."
Fidel scoffed. He pushed himself up from the table, the legs of his chair screeching against the floorboards. His steps were slow, uneven, menacing. He jabbed a thick finger toward Aaron's chest.
Fidel is Aaron San Agustin's maternal uncle—the brother of Aaron's mother. He is controlling, abusive figure, often drunk, emotionally manipulative, and physically threatening. Aaron has grown up under his shadow, witnessing him abuse his mother and belittle Aaron's dreams and efforts.
"You think you're better than us?" he spat. "You're just a boy with books and big dreams. This place—Crestfall—doesn't need dreamers. It needs backs to bend and mouths to shut."
Aaron's fists clenched. His heart was hammering, but his voice never wavered.
"All I ever did was try to help," he said. "I worked the fields. I took side jobs. I sent money every time I could. But this house—this family—it's built on silence and survival. I'm done surviving."
Behind him, his mother lifted her head. Her eyes were red, her face pale.
"Aaron, please," she whispered, reaching toward him with shaking fingers. "He's drunk. He doesn't mean it. Don't leave like this..."
"You said that the last time he hit you," Aaron said softly.
The words hung in the air like smoke from the lamp. The room fell into a suffocating stillness. The only sound was the rain, tapping harder against the windows.
Fidel's face twisted in rage. He took a step forward.
Aaron moved fast. He dropped his bag and reached for the kitchen knife lying beside the half-cut onions on the counter. He didn't point it, just held it upright between them like a barrier drawn in steel.
"Touch her again," he said, his voice deathly quiet, "and I'll come back for you."
Fidel froze. His expression faltered. He stood there, chest heaving, then muttered something under his breath and stumbled back into the shadows of the kitchen.
Aaron turned to his mother, his jaw quivering.
"I love you, Ma," he said. "But I can't drown here anymore."
She reached for him again, lips parting as if to beg one more time—but Aaron had already picked up his bag.
Outside, the rain was colder than before. It soaked through his clothes as he stepped onto the muddy road. The wind roared through the tall grass, pushing him forward like it too wanted him gone.
Down the hill, the headlights of the last bus out of Crestfall blinked in the dark, the engine low and growling. Aaron ran. With every step, the weight of the past slipped further behind him. The house, the shadows, the shouting—they all faded into the night.
He didn't look back.
Aaron blinked. The hum of the store returned. Lucas was still watching him, now frowning.
"You okay?" Lucas asked.
Aaron nodded, but his voice was distant. "Yeah... Just thinking."
Lucas took a sip from his mug, unsure whether to press further. "You ever miss it? Your hometown?"
Aaron gave a faint, tired smile. "Some places aren't meant to be missed. Just remembered."
Outside, the automatic doors whooshed open again. A new customer walked in. Aaron turned and moved back to work—shelves to stack, time to pass. But behind his eyes, Crestfall still burned in rain and memory