The Cottage and the Code

Chapter Four: The Cottage and the Code

A house is made of wood and stone, but a home is built from the rituals we keep. Even in a new world, you must pay your respects to the shadows in the corner.

The sun spilled its last gold over Sarimanok’s cliffs, staining the sky in violent streaks of copper and indigo. The port’s wild hum was softening, the shouts of barter fading into the murmurs of families gathering for dinner as lanterns made of capiz shells flickered to life along the boardwalk.

I walked beside Marikit down the cobblestone lane, our footsteps keeping time with the lull of the tide. My stomach was full of isaw and rice, but my brain—my burnt-out, over-caffeinated, corporate-trained brain—was wide awake.

Old habits die hard. Especially when those habits involve Key Performance Indicators.

I looked at the evening trade winding down. A fisherman was tallying his catch on a slate. A weaver was rolling up her banig mats. My mind automatically started building spreadsheets, overlaying rows and columns on the magical landscape.

"So," I muttered, half to myself, gesturing with a stick of barbecue I hadn’t finished. "The stalls with the fixed wooden posts—the ones with roofs—they pay a fixed tax to the harbormaster. High overhead, but prime real estate. But the mat-sellers, like you... you pay by a share system?"

Marikit tilted her head, clutching her empty basket. She looked at me like I was speaking ancient Greek, or worse, corporate jargon. "What is a 'tax,' Kuya Pepito? We give a share to the Watchers to keep the storms away."

"Right. Service fees. Same concept." I nodded, my eyes scanning the layout. "Low overhead, high autonomy. It’s basically the gig economy, but with better scenery and zero timeshare cold-calling."

Marikit blinked. "What is a 'gig economy'?"

"It’s when you work very hard for yourself so you don't have to work for a boss, but then you realize you are the worst boss you've ever had," I explained grimly.

I pointed to a stall where a woman was selling carved shell combs that glowed softly under the lantern light. They weren't practical. They didn't cook food or catch fish.

"And those," I noted. "Those aren’t necessities. They’re wants. Luxury goods. Meaning: better profit margins. People will pay extra for the vibe."

The girl’s smile turned knowing, catching on. "Because they are pretty? Because they make the girls feel like the sea princesses?"

"Exactly," I grinned. "Curiosity sells. Emotion sells."

"Curiosity," she tested the word. "My Lola says curiosity feeds the cat to the shark."

I chuckled. "In my world, we say ‘curiosity clicks.’ But honestly? I think I’m officially retired from the clicking business. I’d rather sell the shells."

We reached the edge of town where the white cobblestone bled into packed, dark earth. The transition was abrupt. The warm, salty air of the port shifted, becoming fresher, cooler, carrying that sharp mineral tang of the Amihan Forest.

The trees beyond the clearing whispered, their silver leaves rustling like they were gossiping about my return. They were probably making fun of my neon-orange sneakers again.

Marikit hesitated at the boundary. She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

"It’s late," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "You should not walk the forest path when the fireflies start gathering. The fog... it remembers faces."

"I’ll manage," I said, trying to sound confident, though her words gave me a serious case of the chills. "Where I come from, the fog is just smog from jeepneys. It doesn't remember faces—it just ruins your lungs."

Her eyes softened, the mismatched green and violet reflecting the dying light. "Where will you stay, Kuya? The inn is expensive. Two Pilak a night."

"I have a place," I said, pointing toward the tree line. "There’s a cottage by the forest edge. It used to be my grandmother’s."

The change in her was instant.

Her small frame went still. The playful, street-smart vendor vanished, replaced by a child looking at a monument. Reverence bloomed in her gaze.

"The Espiritu cottage?" she breathed.

My heart stuttered a rhythm against my ribs. "You know the name?"

"Everyone knows the name," Marikit whispered. "Lady Ynez. The First Babaylan who could whisper the typhoons to sleep. The First Merchant who traded with the Deep Ones without losing her soul. She is the weaver of the wards that keep the void from swallowing our cliffs."

I stared at her.

Babaylan.

I’d always thought of Lola Ynez as a stern old woman with a sharp tongue, a perpetually simmering pot of sinigang, and a secret stash of Hany milk chocolates she hid in the fridge. I remembered her yelling at the TV during variety shows. I remembered her smelling like Vicks VapoRub.

But here? Here, she was a literal legend. A myth sewn into the coastline’s fabric.

"She... yeah," I managed, my throat tight. "That sounds like her. Though she mostly used her whispering voice to tell me to finish my vegetables."

Marikit didn't laugh. She looked at the dark path leading to the cottage.

"Be careful, Kuya Pepito," she warned. "The fog around that house lets in only those it waits for. If you are not welcome... the door will not be there."

"Then I guess it’s been waiting a long time," I said. "Hey, Marikit."

She looked up.

"Come by the Town Hall tomorrow morning? Or wherever the center of trade is. I’ll need a guide again. I’ll pay you for the help. Every guide deserves a fair wage."

Her face lit up, a brilliant sunbeam in the dusk. "Okay, Kuya! See you tomorrow!"

She turned and ran back toward the safety of the port, slipping into the glowing maze of the market until her light blue dress vanished among the lanterns.

I stood alone at the edge of the woods.

"Alright, BEP," I murmured. "Let's go home."

"Navigational overlay active," the AI responded. "Caution: Atmospheric moisture increasing. Or in poetic terms: The fog is remembering."

I walked.

The path home pulsed faintly beneath my shoes, like veins under skin. It wasn't mud; it was hard-packed earth that seemed to vibrate. Fireflies—not the erratic flickers of Earth, but steady, glowing orbs of blue light—gathered around me. They hovered at shoulder height, acting like tiny sentinels lighting my way.

When the cottage came into view, nestled between the roots of the Balete trees, it looked different at night. The windows weren't dark; they glowed with a soft, inviting amber warmth, as if a fire had just been lit.

I reached the gate.

Creeeeak.

The sampaguita vines pulled back on their own. The gate swung open before I touched it, releasing a breath of jasmine and sea salt that washed over me.

"Welcome back, User," BEP noted. "Biometric wards have disengaged. The house recognizes the specific cadence of your walk. Apparently, you have a distinct 'tired shuffle'."

"Thanks for the confidence boost," I muttered.

I stepped inside.

The silence wasn’t empty. It was waiting.

I set down my satchel on the sturdy narra table. The wooden walls, the bamboo floor, the small altar in the corner—it all felt alive. The air was still, but it wasn't stale. It felt like the pause after a deep inhale.

I could almost hear Lola’s voice echoing off the rafters: "Walang tahanan ang bahay kung walang pusong nakatira." (A house isn't a home without a heart living in it.)

"Okay," I said to the empty room. "I'm the heart now. I guess."

I walked over to the small altar in the corner. It was simple—a chipped ceramic teacup, a few dried sampaguita flowers, and a small wooden statuette of a woman holding a sheaf of rice. It looked dusty. Neglected.

I felt a pang of guilt. Lola would have smacked the back of my head for letting an altar get this dusty.

I reached into my pocket and drew out the shells I had bought from Marikit. The spiral conch. The speckled cowries. And the centerpiece—the rose-quartz shell that hummed with warmth.

I wiped the dust from the altar with my sleeve. I arranged the shells gently in a semi-circle around the teacup.

As soon as the rose shell touched the wood, a reaction occurred.

Hummmmm.

A faint light rippled between the shells, linking them in a soft web of rose and amber energy. The air in the cottage shifted—it felt lighter. Crisper. The shadows in the corners seemed to retreat, becoming less heavy.

"Folk magic transaction complete," BEP’s voice chimed quietly. "You have performed a 'Payment of Respect.' Local anito and household spirits have accepted the offering. The wards have been... personalized. Also, nice interior decorating. Very Feng Shui."

"Guess we’re roommates now, BEP," I said, feeling a strange sense of peace settle over me. "Me, you, and the ghosts in the wifi."

"Correction: I reside in the localized cloud architecture of the house, not the wifi. But the sentiment is noted."

I turned to leave the altar, but something caught my eye. Tucked behind the wooden statue, wedged into the corner, was an old picture frame.

I lifted it carefully. The glass was grimy, covered in five years of silence. I wiped it with my thumb.

The breath left my lungs in a rush.

It was a photo from the old house in Pasig. We were sitting on the concrete steps.

There was Francesca—my twin sister. She was sitting straight-backed, wearing her school uniform, not a hair out of place, smiling that perfect, 'I'm going to be a lawyer' smile.

There was Teresa—the youngest. She was blurring in the photo because she couldn't sit still, her eyes mischievous, chocolate smeared on her cheek from the plate of kutsinta in her lap.

And me. In the middle. Gap-toothed, messy hair, holding a toy robot, completely unaware of the cosmic chaos coming my way.

"Cheska... Tesa..." I whispered, tracing their faces on the cool glass.

A lump formed in my throat, hard and painful. I hadn't seen them since the funeral-that-wasn't-a-funeral. When Lola vanished, the family fractured. Francesca buried herself in law school in London. Teresa went off the grid, backpacking in Vietnam. And I stayed in the empty house, waiting for a door to open.

"Lola," I whispered. "What did you do?"

I’d thought the inheritance was just this house. Just this escape. But looking at the photo, I realized it wasn't. She didn't just bring me here to save myself.

"Alert," BEP interrupted, though her voice was softer than usual. "Energy signature detected. Proximity: Ten meters. Location: The exterior shed."

I blinked, wiping my eyes. "The shed? I thought that was just for gardening tools."

"The energy signature is... dense. Mechanical. And distinctly resonant with your memory engrams."

I set the photo down gently on the table. The air outside smelled of wet grass and secrets.

I grabbed the oil lamp and walked out the back door.

The shed was a small structure choked with vines, looking like a green mound against the dark trees. The door groaned in protest as I pulled it open, rust flaking off the hinges.

I held the lamp up.

Inside, it smelled of oil, rubber, and ozone. There were gardening tools, yes—a rusting bolo, a rake. But in the center, covered by a heavy, dusty canvas tarp, was a shape I knew better than my own face.

My hands trembled as I reached out. I yanked the tarp free.

I froze.

"No way," I whispered. "No. Way."

It was a Honda Wave 125.

But not just any bike. It was my bike. The one I had sold three years ago to pay for the property tax on the Pasig house. Cherry red bodywork. Chrome shining like the day I bought it. The custom sticker on the mudguard that read 'Katas ng Call Center' (Fruit of the Call Center).

But it was... different.

The engine block wasn't steel; it was a dark, translucent crystal. The exhaust pipe shimmered with blue runes etched into the metal. The gas tank hummed.

"Scanning," BEP said. "Object is not the original matter. It is a temporal reconstruction based on stored memory and localized matter creation. Summoned and stabilized by User Ynez. Basically, she 3D-printed your memory using magic."

I walked around it, running my hand over the seat. It felt real. Solid.

"By the way," BEP added. "Did you bring your Driver's License, or does the 'Path of Knowing' include knowing how to talk your way out of a traffic ticket in a feudal society?"

I swung a leg over the seat. The suspension creaked familiarly. I gripped the handlebars.

"Let's see if it starts."

I turned the key—which was already in the ignition. I pressed the starter.

VROOOOM-CRACK!

The engine didn't just roar; it thundered. It wasn't the sound of gasoline exploding; it was the sound of a storm trapped in a box. The exhaust pipe flared, spitting out blue sparks instead of smoke. The headlight beamed on, cutting through the darkness with a light so pure it looked solid.

"Mana-combustion hybrid," BEP noted, sounding impressed. "Top speed: Unknown. Fuel efficiency: Unparalleled. Coolness factor: Surprisingly high for someone wearing cargo shorts."

"Lola," I laughed, revving the engine, feeling the vibration rattle my teeth. "You magnificent, extra-dimensional genius!"

I killed the engine. The silence rushed back in, but now it felt energized.

I walked back into the cottage, feeling lighter than I had in years. I sat at the narra table, the photograph of my sisters beside me. I pulled out my phone and placed it on the table.

"Alright, BEP," I said, my voice steady. "No more hints. No more cryptic tutorials. Explain the endgame."

The AI’s tone sharpened. The screen flashed white.

Then, the light projected upwards, forming a hologram in the air. It wasn't text. It was a video message.

Lola Ynez stood there. She looked younger, stronger, wearing traditional Babaylan robes woven with fiber optics. She looked at the camera—at me—with eyes that were fierce and kind.

"Apo ko," she began. Her voice filled the room, warm as sunlight. "If you are hearing this, then you have crossed. You have eaten the food. You have paid your respects."

She paused, as if gathering her thoughts.

"The inheritance is not gold, Pepito. It is connection. The Lagusan—the rift—has thinned the veil between worlds. It is becoming unstable. I am holding the door, but my arms are getting tired."

She gestured, and three symbols appeared in the air. A Sword. A Book. A Key.

"Each of you must walk the paths I could no longer walk. The blood calls you. You must guide them when they come."

"Francesca... she has the fire. She is the Sword. The Law."

"Teresa... she has the wildness. She is the Key. The Chaos."

She looked directly at me.

"And you, Sixto Pepito Espiritu. You have the mind that sees patterns where others see noise. You are the Path of Knowing. Logic. Synthesis. Karunungan."

"You are the Tagapamagitan. The Bridge."

The hologram flickered.

"Build the network, Apo. Connect the islands. Stabilize the trade. If the economy of the magical world collapses, the rift tears open, and Pasig falls into the sea. No pressure."

She winked. Actually winked.

"Magsumikap ka. Work hard. I left you the bike. Don't scratch it."

The light faded. The hologram collapsed back into the phone.

I sat there in the silence, the weight of the legacy settling on my shoulders. But for the first time, it didn't feel like a burden. It didn't feel like a performance review I was destined to fail.

It felt like a job offer. A promotion.

"Tagapamagitan," I murmured, tasting the word. "The Bridge."

"Primary objective updated," BEP said. "Objective: Build your network. Establish economic stability. Locate Siblings."

I picked up the rose-quartz shell again, turning it over in my fingers. I looked at the map on the screen.

"So this isn't just about surviving," I said. "It's about rebuilding the family. And saving the world with... economics?"

"Essentially," BEP agreed. "A merchant’s license would be efficient. It’s like a LinkedIn Top Voice badge, but actually useful in this dimension."

I stood up and walked to the window. Outside, the shed glowed faintly where the mana-bike waited.

"Then we start here," I said. "This cottage is basecamp. Tomorrow, we go to the Town Hall. We get a license. We trade. We learn the market."

"We blend in," BEP added.

"No," I smiled, looking at my reflection in the dark glass. "We don't blend in. We disrupt."

I looked at the photo of my sisters one last time.

"I'm coming for you guys," I whispered. "Just... give me a minute to figure out how to drive a magic motorcycle."

Outside, the forest stirred. The Espiritu house had fully awakened. And honestly? I was finally ready to stop being a "wet monkey" and start being the heir.

Author’s Note:

Walang tahanan ang bahay kung walang pusong nakatira. (A house is not a home without a heart inside).

We finally have a Base of Operations! And yes, the Honda Wave 125 is the legendary steed of choice for the Filipino working class. It can carry a family of five, a pig, and two sacks of rice. Making it run on magic just seems like the logical next step.

Lore Check: The Anito mentioned are ancestral spirits/nature spirits. In Filipino culture, you acknowledge them (saying "Tabi-tabi po") so you don't get cursed. Pepito setting up the altar is him officially clocking in as the resident of the house.

The Trio: We've been introduced to the siblings! Francesca (The Sword/Law) and Teresa (The Key/Chaos). Pepito is the Bridge. The party is slowly forming.

Next Chapter: We hit the Town Hall, deal with some magical bureaucracy (which is somehow worse than regular bureaucracy), and test drive the Mana-Wave.

If you want a Mana-Cycle of your own, hit that Follow button! And tell me in the comments: What vehicle would you summon from your memory to drive in a fantasy world? (I’m taking a Toyota Tamaraw FX, personally).

- Author