HIS NAME was not Orpheus, but it might as well have been. Every song echoed like a love song as he strummed the beaten-up six-string.
While the sweet melodies were meant for his bride, they flowed into the city and concealed the dangers lurking in the Manila streets. He turned rot into flowers and decrepit buildings into castles that were far more enchanting than they really were.
But the symphonies he sold were not enough.
She was his. But only in sickness, and later, in death.
All it took was the poisonous bite of a rat to part the lovers.
He began performing for something worth more than coins. He sang to the gods above, to the anitos, to the diwatas, to the ghosts. He sang until the undercity beamed and sparkled to life.
He descended not to find street sellers or sleeping beggars but rather an audience of deities, mourning alongside him.
The One who wept the most, shrouded in darkness, gave his lover back in return of his obedience and trust—like the hymnals he used to sing about during Sunday mass. Yet now, it was blasphemy to be faithful to anyone else but her.
In the darkness, he searched for the music that could rival the beauty of his: her breathing. Doubt seeped in as they ascended. All sounds dwindled with every step.
As he reached the mourning light, she finally made the sweetest sound.
Orpheus breathed a sigh of relief. Without a second thought, he turned around. F
