They buried Crisanta Salvacion without a cause of death. The certificate arrived blank in that space, as if the paper itself had refused to choose. Heart, the doctor suggested aloud. Shock, the police muttered. God’s will, the parishioners whispered, relieved to stop there.
Only I knew that none of those words fit cleanly. Crisanta died in the chapel, kneeling before the image of the Black Nazarene, her hands folded as if holding something fragile and unseen. When they found her, her face was calm—not peaceful but resolved. As though a decision had finally been made, and the body had merely followed. I was the sacristan then. I had locked the doors the night before. I knew she had not been alone. For forty days straight, Crisanta came to the chapel at dawn. She lit one candle each morning, always from the same wick, always with the same care, as if the flame were a promise that might shatter if handled roughly.
“Para kanino?” I asked once. She smiled but did not answer. Devotion like that draws attention not only from people. The elders said she was making panata. A vow, they explained, must be specific to be heard. God, they believed, preferred clarity. But other listeners feel the same. On the twentieth morning, Crisanta stayed longer than usual. I was sweeping the aisle when I heard her voice—low, urgent, almost scolding.
“Hindi iyon ang pangalan mo,” she said. That made me stop. There was no one else in the chapel. I did not ask her about it. In towns like ours, questions are a form of arrogance. We believe survival depends on not knowing too much. Still, the air grew heavier after that. The candles smoked even when there was no wind. The Nazarene’s shadow stretched along the wall, its edges soft, uncertain, as if deciding what shape to keep. On the thirty-ninth day, Crisanta came to me before dawn.
“If something happens to me,” she said, “do not let them name it carelessly.”
Her voice was steady. Her hands were not.
“Name what?” I asked.
She shook her head. “That is the danger.”
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