My name is Elara. I'm seventeen years old, and I live with my mother in an old house perched on the edge of a sleepy coastal town in the Philippines. Our house is the last one on the road, surrounded by dense woods, rustling bamboo groves, and endless whispers from the trees. They say our town is ancient, built upon layers of stories - some remembered, many deliberately forgotten. And if you listen carefully, the land still hums with the voices of the past.
My mother, Isadora, is a quiet woman. She moves like a shadow, graceful and reserved. She's a midwife, and the town respects her, even fears her a little. People say she has "the knowing" - that she can sense life before it arrives and see death before it takes root. But at home, she's just Mama. Sweet, tired, and constantly humming lullabies that I never quite recognize.
Our life was simple, until the dreams began.
They started just after my seventeenth birthday. At first, they were fleeting images - a forest bathed in moonlight, the scent of ylang-ylang in the air, and a deep voice humming a melody that pierced right through my chest. Then came the eyes. Silver. Luminous. Watching.
I'd wake up breathless, clutching my sheets, heart pounding. The strangest part? Every time I opened my eyes, my room would be filled with the scent of fresh flowers. Not the usual garden kind, but wild, forest blooms - soft, almost otherworldly. And always, without fail, there would be a flower on my windowsill. White, delicate, and still wet with dew.
I tried to tell Mama once.
"You've been going near the balete, haven't you?" she asked, voice tight with fear.
I hadn't. Not since I was a child.
The tree stood behind our house, its thick roots twisting into the earth like sleeping serpents. It had been there longer than any of us. Mama said our ancestors planted it as a boundary, a marker, a warning. She never let me near it. "Not all that is beautiful is safe," she'd often say. "And not all that watches means you well."
But something about it pulled me. It wasn't just curiosity - it was longing. As though the tree held a part of me I didn't yet understand.
That night, after another vivid dream, I stood by my window and looked toward the balete. The moonlight painted the tree in silver light. The wind carried the same melody from my dreams. And then, I saw him.
A figure - tall, still, shadowed - stood beneath the balete. He wasn't moving, but I could feel his gaze. The same silver eyes from my dreams. Watching. Waiting.
I blinked, and he was gone.
The next morning, the flower on my pillow wasn't just fragrant - it was warm. As if it had been placed there seconds before I woke. The window was closed. My door locked.
I said nothing to Mama, but I felt her watching me with a different kind of worry.
That evening, as I helped her prepare ginger tea in the kitchen, she said, "Elara, there are things in this world that wear beauty like a mask. They sing, they whisper, they offer gifts. But their love is not the kind that saves - it's the kind that binds."
I didn't know how to answer, so I kept stirring the pot.
"There is an engkanto in that tree," she continued. "He's been there for generations. He's malevolent. Not cruel - worse. He's charming. Clever. Lonely. And when he finds someone to love, he doesn't let go."
I thought she was just being superstitious. I thought I could handle it. I thought I was dreaming.
But I was wrong.
That night, I dreamt again - but this time, I didn't wake up afraid. I woke up smiling.
And that, I now realize, was the beginning of the end.