Your slumped shoulders silhouetted your spindly frame as you sludged through the hallway on a Monday morning, last week’s Service Awards fermented in your thoughts like souring milk.
Manang, why weren’t you included there?
A few seconds later, gasps and gossip cut through the air.
“White lady. Naay white lady sa third floor kada 7 p.m.”
A specter. In a Catholic school? Amazing.
The guy pantomimed her movements—back hunched, neck craned, gaze downward—claiming she left wet, sloshing footprints in empty classrooms.
You clenched your jaw. Fear-mongers.
How can they not recognize Manang, a 40-something woman with wavy tresses, always in a white shirt, who swept hallways, tended abandoned rooms, and scrubbed toilet bowls long after the class bell?
Twelve o’clock prayers. Genuflections. Rosary months. Theology subjects. A Catholic institution instilling faith, yet they feared a ghost no one saw while ignoring the woman right before their eyes.
You stormed into the cafeteria, the smell of greasy food and clanging food trays filling your senses. At a corner table, you watched the busser shuffling between seats, scraping crumbs, collecting bones, wiping away traces of those who never noticed her.
Scrape, wipe, collect, dump, repeat.
She approached your table, temple greasing with sweat. “Harvey, how’s your class today?”
You forced a smile. “Good, Ma, just thinking.”
Her brow furrowed. “Are you alright?”
“How long has Manang worked here?”
She dried her hands on her apron. “Long enough.”
“Fifteen, maybe twenty years, ma?”
A shrug. “I think so. But I have to clear the tables. You know how lunch is.”
You gulped. “Ma… what’s Manang’s real name?”
“I only knew her as Manang. That’s what everyone calls her.”
Your mind flashed to the Service Awards. Wouldn’t it be an honor if the woman they mistook for a ghost was finally seen?
You pictured her name—Manang—echoing in next year’s ceremony. But as cafeteria noise swallowed the thought, you knew the truth.
She had been invisible long before they called her a ghost.
You stood, tied an apron, and joined your mother. When the students thanked her—“Thanks, Manang”—you wondered if she too would fade into the background.
Familiar, essential, unseen.
You kept these facts to yourself. The Service Awards had passed. The fryer had gone cold.
But the grease still burned.
Dhan Durango is a Filipino pre-service teacher and a registered author with the National Book Development Board. An emerging voice in contemporary literary fiction, Dhan’s stories explore themes of identity, socioeconomic struggles, and queer experiences. Dhan’s collection of short stories is set to be released next year. When not teaching or writing short prose, he manages his family business on weekends. Through his work, Dhan aims to amplify marginalized voices and challenge societal norms.