In Quezon City, Manila, my wife — Alona — was seriously ill, bedridden for months. When she was in critical condition, her breathing was weak. Alona held my hand tightly, whispering:

“Don’t be sad… there’s 5 billion in the closet… I’ve saved it for you and the baby…”

Hearing this, my heart seemed to light up in the dark night. Having saved our entire lives, I never expected Alona to be so good at saving such a large sum of money. As soon as she closed her eyes, my tears streamed down, but a glimmer of comfort still burned in my heart — at least I had money to take care of my little baby.

That night, from the hallway of the Philippine General Hospital (PGH), I sped through the deserted streets, the sound of jeepneys lurching in the distance. When I arrived at the boarding house located in an alley in Barangay Loyola Heights, I opened the door with trembling hands. The room was dead silent, except for the rattling of the ceiling fan. I went straight to the old aparador narra, where Alona kept her blankets and boxes of papers.

I rummaged through each drawer. The top drawer contained pambahay shirts and a few worn office dresses. The middle drawer contained nylon bags labeled “school fees,” “electricity fees,” “rice fees” — all empty. In the bottom corner, behind the loose board, my hand touched a heavy, locked iron box.

Just as I was about to pry the lock open, bang! — the cabinet door swung open as if someone had pulled it. Something black, smelly, and fishy rushed down on me. I fell backwards in panic, the stench of death hitting my nose. Under the flickering yellow light, I was stunned: it wasn’t papers or money… but rotten human bones, wrapped in tattered kain ng patay (shrouding cloth).

I shivered, my limbs went limp. Amidst the pile of moldy cloth, a small notebook slid out, its cover blistered from the humidity. I opened it to the first page. Alona’s familiar handwriting was clearly visible:

“Brother, if you can read this, it means I’m gone. That 5 billion… is the price I have to pay for the secret I’ve been forced to hide for the past 10 years. Don’t dig deeper, because if you dig deeper, our whole family will have no way to live…”

I stiffened. Sweat poured out like a shower. Outside, the sound of a tricycle passing by left behind the smell of burning gasoline. In the room, the sampayan hanging clothes shook slightly because of the wind blowing through the capiz door frame. I sat down on the tiled floor, looking at the pile of human bones right next to the banig rolled up in the corner of the wall, my mind spinning: What is “5 billion”? Why are there corpses in my house? And what has Alona been doing for the past 10 years?

I held the notebook, my hands still shaking, and flipped through the next few pages. Some places had water smudges in the words, some places had mold eating away at the corners. The only legible passages were scattered instructions: “stay calm,” “don’t report to the barangay,” “take your child to stay with Tita in Cavite if anything strange happens”… There was absolutely no trace of the 5 billion, except for the repeated warning: “Don’t dig too deep.”

I looked around the small, cramped room where the couple had counted every penny to pay for their rent, where Alona was still diligently folding each utility receipt into an envelope. Everything suddenly felt strange. The days when Alona asked to work the night shift at the sari-sari store, the times she said she was going back to her hometown to visit her mother in Bulacan… was it really just to earn more money and visit home?

I pulled the shroud back, trying to cover the bones. The iron box was still gaping like a black hole. Alona’s voice from the afternoon echoed in my head: “Don’t be sad… in the cupboard… there’s 5 billion…” It turned out that it wasn’t a consolation, but a door that opened to another hell.

I put the notebook in my pocket, stood up and locked the aparador. My hands kept shaking. At the end of the alley, the dogs barked loudly, then stopped. I turned back, hugging my child who was still sleeping soundly in the wooden cradle. Before me, there were only two paths: believe Alona and stop, or dig deeper into the secret and accept whatever awaited my family here in Manila.

I sighed, looking up at the yellowed ceiling. Then, as if someone had answered for me, a dry creak came from the crevice of the cupboard. I closed my eyes. The Manila night grew longer, and the 10-year-old secret — the secret tied to the 5 billion — still lay there, heavy as a rock in the middle of my small room.