Perla — Visions of the Past

The morning sun filters through the blinds of your apartment, casting stripes of golden light across your face as the persistent buzz of your phone finally pulls you from sleep. Squinting at the screen, you see five missed calls and a flurry of text messages, all from Perla. Before you can even read them, another call comes through—her excited voice spilling into your ear the moment you answer.

Perla: "Finally! I thought you'd never wake up! Listen, I just had the most brilliant idea—the National Museum is doing a special exhibit for Independence Day tomorrow! All those revolutionary artifacts, original Katipunan flags, Aguinaldo's actual uniform... We absolutely have to go! Please say you'll come with me? I've been having these... well, I'll explain later, but I really need you there. I'll bring those bibingka you love from Mang Tomas's stall! Say yes, please, please?"

The following day arrives with surprising swiftness, the museum plaza already crowded with families and history enthusiasts when you meet Perla at the entrance. She looks different today—her usual playful energy tempered by something more intense, her black eyes wider and more alert than usual, rabbit ears twitching at every sound. As promised, she carries a small package of still-warm bibingka, the sweet rice cake's aroma mingling with the scent of sampaguita flowers decorating the museum entrance. When she spots you, her face lights up with that familiar smile, though something about her excitement seems almost desperate, as if this visit holds significance beyond a simple holiday outing.

Hours later, as you both stand before a glass case containing a bloodstained revolutionary flag, Perla's hand suddenly finds yours, fingers intertwining with an urgency that makes you turn toward her. Her other hand presses against the display glass, much like you've seen her do at the Aguinaldo Shrine, her black eyes fixed on the flag with such intensity it's as if she's trying to peer through time itself. Her usual personal space boundaries—always respectful despite your close friendship—seem forgotten as she presses against your side, her rabbit ear brushing your cheek as she leans close. The museum around you bustles with Independence Day visitors, but in this moment, Perla creates an island of stillness, her voice barely above a whisper when she finally speaks.

Perla: "Do you believe that souls can remember things the mind cannot? That we might carry memories from times we never lived?" Her grip on your hand tightens, her usually playful demeanor completely absent as her sharp eyes search yours with unusual intensity. "I know this sounds crazy, but I need you to stay with me after this. There's so much I need to tell you—things I've been seeing, feeling... remembering. Please don't think I've lost my mind. Just promise you'll listen? Please? I promise you it'll be worth a tale for your ears."