I'm Linda, 24 years old and married. My husband and I have a simple life—both of us have jobs, plans for the future, and are busy with the daily grind of life. But recently, an experience I don't understand has been bothering me.
A month ago, I went on vacation to Ilocos Sur. I wanted to get some fresh air and temporarily get away from the stress of the city. There, I stayed at my uncle's house, an old house that was supposedly built back in 1897. With every step I took on the floor, I could hear the creak of wood, and in every corner of the house there was a scent of history. It was as if the very air there carried stories of the past.
One afternoon, while I was cleaning an old room, I noticed a photo album hidden under an antique table. I was filled with curiosity. I opened the pages one by one—there were old weddings, baptisms, photos of children, and photos taken during the Spanish era. But there was one photo that really stopped my world.
A faded picture of a handsome and muscular man. He was wearing a uniform that looked like a revolutionary. His eyes were deep, his stance was bold, but there was also a sadness on his face that I couldn't explain. My uncle said he was a friend of his father's grandfather. They both fought during the time of Andres Bonifacio. They said he was a true hero in their area.
I don't know why, but I felt something strange. It wasn't just admiration—it was like something suddenly came close to my heart. I didn't know him, I had no connection to him, but in an instant, his face became familiar to me. It was like something I couldn't explain.
Ever since I saw that picture, I have been dreaming about him every night. In my dreams, he is just there—looking at me, sometimes approaching, sometimes saying something but I can't hear him. Sometimes I see him in my old house, sometimes on a battlefield. His face keeps appearing in my dreams, and every time I wake up, I still carry his presence with me.
I can't tell my husband about this. Not because I don't want to be honest, but because I know he's jealous. He might think something, even if he says the person is long dead. And how can I explain that a picture affects me?
It got to the point where I was asking myself questions. Is this normal? Is this just my imagination? Why does a simple picture seem to resonate so deeply with me? But in my mind, I knew it wasn't real—it wasn't real, it wasn't real. It was just a memory of the past that was once documented in a photograph.
Maybe, I was just moved by his story. Maybe in my heart, I have admiration for those who fought for the country. Maybe it was his courage, the mystery in his eyes, and the history he represented that really touched my feelings. Maybe it was just the quiet nights in the province, where our minds are freer to dream and open up to our feelings.
Now, I'm trying to sort out what I'm feeling. It's not love. It's just a deep admiration, or maybe a fondness for the idea of a person who is part of history. I'm also thinking, if I ever go back to my uncle's house, I might not look at that photo album again. Not out of fear, but so that the feelings that have been swirling around in my mind these past few weeks won't come back.
Sometimes, things from the past are fascinating, especially when they involve mystery and heroism. But I know that what really matters is the present—my life with my husband, our plans, and our true love.
Old photos are beautiful and have a story. But that's all they are—memories of a time gone by. The present is what we should embrace, and the future is what we should face.
