A 35-year-old unmarried woman once let an old beggar into her hut to shelter from the rain, when she suddenly received shocking news…
My name is Lani, 35 years old, an elementary school teacher in a village school in the middle of the Central Luzon plains, where the rice fields of Nueva Ecija stretch to the foot of the Sierra Madre. Life goes on peacefully like any other country woman, except that… I am still single. It’s not that I’m picky, nor that I don’t believe in love — it’s just that fate hasn’t come yet. My mother sighed many times, my friends were busy with their children or had drifted away to Manila. I felt like a slow-growing tree, alone in the budding season.

That afternoon, it was the habagat season and it was pouring rain. I was cycling home from school when suddenly the wind tore through the air, and the road was flooded. Luckily, about two kilometers from my house there was an abandoned wooden rice hut of a farmer, so I quickly pulled over to take shelter.

The hut was old, the corrugated iron roof had a few holes in it but it was still sturdy. As I parked my bike and wiped the cold rain off my face, I saw from afar a stooped figure wearing a salakot (Filipino conical hat) approaching.

It was an old man. His nylon raincoat was thin and tattered. His eyes were cloudy but lit up when he saw someone in the hut.

I hesitated for a moment, then moved forward and called out:

– Please come in and take shelter, it’s raining hard!

The old man clasped his hands in thanks and walked in tremblingly. Coming closer, I saw that he was thin and haggard; the smell of mud from the fields and his old body was strong. He sat close to the edge of the hut, afraid to bother me.

I rummaged through my bag, took out the bread and the carton of milk that I had left for the students who were picky eaters:

– Please eat to warm your stomach.

He looked at me for a long time, his eyes were strange — both touching and as if he recognized something familiar. He stammered:

– You… are so kind… Miss Lani, right?

I was startled. How did you know my name?..

I nodded hesitantly:

– You know me?

The old man smiled, bit the cake, and said with a choked voice:

– I used to… used to know your mother. Decades ago, I was in the army with your father. I… I owe your family a huge debt…

The rain was still pouring down. His words confused me. I had never heard my mother mention anyone like that.

– My mother passed away when I was 20 years old. As for my father… I have never met him.

The old man nodded, his sunken eyes glistening with tears:

– Yes… because I was the one who witnessed the night he sacrificed himself…

I was stunned.

For some reason, his words brought back the distant past clearly. For years, my mother avoided me every time I asked about my father. She only said: “Your father is gone forever.” No portrait, no death certificate. Only an old wedding ring carefully stored in a wooden box.

He continued, slowly:

– That day, my unit and your father were stationed at a small hill in Jolo, Sulu. When the enemy suddenly opened fire, he pushed me down into the bunker, and I was… hit by shrapnel… When I woke up, he was already lying still.

He stopped, trembling, took out a small object wrapped in an old cloth from his shirt. He handed it to me:

– I’ve kept this for decades. It was his, and he asked me to bring it back to your mother… But I didn’t have the courage… I didn’t dare face the people in the rear.

With trembling hands, I opened it: a faded letter and a photo of us together – my mother and a tall man in military uniform, smiling brightly. That smile… I’ve seen it in the mirror for the past 35 years.

I burst into tears.

The rain gradually stopped. The wind carried the scent of wet grass and patches of clear sky. The old man looked at me and said softly:

– Can you take me back to your house? I just want… to finish what needs to be done.

I nodded.

I didn’t know what was ahead, I only understood: my life was about to change.

I took the old man home. The small house where I had lived alone for more than ten years suddenly became warm because of the sound of another footstep, the old man’s old but gentle breathing. He was old, but his eyes were still bright and kind.

After a simple dinner, I made a pot of hot tea. The photo and the letter were still on the table. I looked at them, then at him, my heart full of questions:

– After the war, what did you do?

– I traveled everywhere, with no relatives left. It was like living the remaining years of a person who should have died decades ago… – he hesitated – I made a living by collecting scrap metal, working for hire. I also intended to go find her and her mother. But I was shy. I thought she would blame me… for letting the man she loved die on the battlefield.

I was silent. How could I blame a person who had carried such a heavy burden all her life?

– What is your name?

– I am Benedicto, everyone calls me Lolo Ben. – he smiled toothlessly – When I was in the unit, they called me Ben “with a beard” because I was a year older than my brothers and was always worried about the future.

From that moment, in Lolo Ben’s eyes, I no longer felt strange. He was like the missing piece of my family picture for many years.

A few days later, Lolo Ben stayed at my house. I bought him a new outfit, took him to get a haircut, and cleaned up the empty room. He was so touched that he almost cried when he had a hot meal in the house.

One morning, he quietly handed me a stack of old papers: a notebook meticulously recording battles, the names of his fallen comrades, and a bold name:
Miguel Reyes – died on September 14, 1974. Send letters and photos to relatives.

I choked up. That name – I had never heard my mother mention it. But now I knew: it was my father.

– After that battle, the unit withdrew quickly, and did not have time to bring the remains back. I and a few others buried him on the hillside. Now… I think I can go back there and take you there. – Lolo Ben said.

My eyes stung. After so many years of living in isolation, I did not dare to think that one day I would know where my father lay.

A month later, I took a leave of absence and flew to Sulu with Lolo Ben.

That trip was a turning point in my life.

With the help of local authorities, Jolo veterans, and by comparing old records, we found the old mound. The traces had faded, only the wild grass swayed. We lit white candles and placed sampaguita (jasmine – the national flower of the Philippines) wreaths. I knelt down and whispered through my tears:

– I’m here, Dad…

Behind me, Lolo Ben stood still, tears streaming down his wrinkled face. I understood, in that moment, that he was not only my father’s comrade, but also the guardian of a part of history — a part of my family.