It’s been weeks now. My legs are numbing from gravity. The wooden floor seems hollow, and I can only think of crawling toward the door. The weather outside creeps into my skin, scorching me to the bone. Nay Seling set the electric fan last night, but it is not helping much. I overheard on the radio that today’s heat will reach around forty degrees. And it has been weeks now since my bed became my sanctuary.
The Cure
Fiction by Ian Jane P. Orillaneda | March 2, 2026