Strings of Memory

Chapter 4

The Silent Echo of a Dream

I didn't remember much of what happened, just the sound of my mother's cries while I watched her.

My heart ached at the sight of her broken self, feeling useless that I couldn't do anything. She gathered herself slowly, trying to appear strong in front of me kahit na alam kong gusto niyang ilabas ang lahat. And it was all because I just stood there, frozen. When she looked at me, para siyang natauhan, kaya mabilis siyang tumayo at hinila ako palabas.

I didn't protest. I just let her pull me at tulala lang ako buong oras na hinihila niya ako. When we arrived at the hospital, we saw the other members of the band, and they all looked weary. Just like my mother, they all looked broken.

Nothing they said registered to me because I could still hear that ringing sound. Although it wasn't as loud as before, it was now a faint hum, still enough to drown out their voices. But even though I didn't catch their words, I could feel that whatever they shared with my mother shattered her even more, because I felt her grip on my hand tighten painfully. Then, as a nurse approached us and started speaking, it was as if the ringing finally stopped—just so I could hear what she was saying.

I didn't want to understand the nurse's words. I knew that listening would only make the weight in my chest heavier, but my ears and brain betrayed me, catching every word kahit na ayoko.

"Mrs. Clemenceau, I know this must be incredibly difficult for you, and I'm so sorry for your loss," the nurse said with a somber expression.

"Mr. Clemenceau was in a car accident. According to witnesses at the scene, he was passing by when a truck suddenly veered toward him. It was confirmed that the driver had passed out due to exhaustion." She paused, as if bracing herself. "People who saw it said that he could have escaped, pero mas pinili ni Mr. Clemenceau na manatili sa kinaroroonan niya, because if he moved, a school bus full of children would've been in the truck's path."

The nurse took a deep, steadying breath before she continued. "The truck hit his car, and there was nothing that could be done. Paramedics arrived quickly and tried to save him, but it was already too late. He was gone." Her voice softened, and she swallowed. "He's a very kind soul, and what happened is something beyond anyone's control. Nakikiramay ako sa inyo," she said, then quietly left us.

Hearing the reason felt like a hundred knives piercing my already shattered heart. My father chose to save the lives of children he didn't even know, because he had always been that kind of person. He was a hero—to me, to my mother, to everyone. But his story didn't end like the heroes I sometimes saw on TV, the ones who survive against all odds and are celebrated afterward. This was different. This wasn't something to be celebrated.

What my father did was heroic, but it left us broken. It took him away from us. And as much as it tore me apart to think it, I wished he had just saved himself. He could have been alive right now if he'd put his own life first. But I knew, deep down, that if this happened all over again, he would make the same choice every single time.

With everything that happened, his death was all over the news. Many praised him for what he did, but all those words felt empty. They echoed hollowly, as if spoken just to fill a void. Nakiramay ang lahat sa amin.

Then, reporters began to swarm our house, eager to capture the story of the broken family left behind.

They were disgusting. After feigning sympathy, they wanted to turn our suffering into their next headline, something to flaunt for views. Pinagpifiestahan nila kami dahil ito ang bago ngayon. This tragedy was the latest sensation, and they wanted to display our pain to the world as if it were a spectacle.