I sold everything I owned except for a few changes of clothes when I left Manila. Everything, including the two-story house, the seven-seater family car that never saw more than two passengers, and even my wedding ring and my gold watch.

My wife had just died. I loved her so much that every reminder of what I lost had to go. I couldn’t bear the empty rooms or even the car with her choice of air freshener hanging on the rearview mirror. She had always wanted to go to Cebu. We never found the time back then. I wish we did. Now, I’m here in Cebu, alone, with nothing and no one.

Maybe the grief of losing her infused me with the tiniest sliver of guilt. When I arrived, I did not think I deserved to buy a good car despite being able to afford one and more. Instead, after I had checked into a dingy city hotel (again, I could have gotten something better, but I didn’t think I deserved to), I made my way to the first second-hand car shop I saw.

Outdated models lined the garage. Sedans in faded, ugly colors like maroon and green, minivans with dusty windows and scratched doors, and pickup trucks that looked like they would rattle even at the lowest speed. Before, I would never have been caught in a place like this. I was too good, too worthy to be seen standing next to something so hideous. But I made my way down the line of vehicles without batting an eye. Even the inspection made me feel pathetic, and I hadn’t even bought anything yet.

An old man in a white sando approached me, smoking a cheap, nasty cigarette. His blue shorts hung low on his hips, exposing a bulging beer belly that made him look like a pregnant sow. He had a white towel slung over his left shoulder. When he saw me, a man so distinguished and handsome, in his vapid little garage, I could almost make out the menacing, manic glint in his eye. No doubt he was looking to scam me or milk me dry with the money he knew I had.

“What are you looking for, ser?” he asked, his clumsy tongue stumbling over the honorific. I bit back a scowl. My wife’s death was affecting me more than I thought possible, as I did not even muster the nerve to look down on the man.

“Something... useful,” I replied, trailing a finger down the hood of one of the better cars. It came back smeared not in gray dust, but black, like ash. I felt my throat closing up, hot tears threatening to fall, but I wiped my finger on my handkerchief and cleared my throat. I would not let this imbecile see me weak. I continued, “Something that looks like it won’t die on me.”

The pot-bellied man looked me up and down. “A man like you, ser, you need a sleek, small car that goes fast. It may look weak compared to the bigger ones, but it is not to be underestimated.”

He led me down the line toward the ugly sedans. I followed instead of walking ahead of him. Another sign of my brokenness.

As he proceeded with his pitch, talking up the quality of his pathetic cars, I spotted a sedan at the very edge of the garage. It was isolated from the other cars, almost wedged to the wall. It was a cool silver, showing promise despite its grime. I instinctively walked toward it, but the man caught my arm in his hand.

“Ay, not that one, ser. That one, no sale,” he said.

I looked at one of the sedans roughly the same size as the silver one that caught my eye. “How much is that one?” I asked.

The man hesitated, suspicious of my sudden changed interest. He pointed to the more "acceptable" sedan and said, “For you, ser, 180k only.”

I replied, “360k for the silver one.”

His bushy eyebrows shot up. I had no idea why he didn’t want to sell the silver car. Maybe he had a good reason. But in the end, his greed won out.

“Okey, ser, 360k for you.”

As we prepared the paperwork and the transfer of keys, the old man spoke again. “Ser, I have to warn you ho. This car? This car is a... problem. Very big problem ho, ser. But you want the car so much, you get the car. No returns, okey?”

I didn’t even glance at him as I reviewed the documents. Out of habit, I rubbed my left hand, wanting to fidget with my wedding band. But it was gone. I cleared my throat again. I sensed eyes watching me carefully and raised my head to see the man watching me intently.

“You married, ser?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered after a fat pause. I didn’t want to share more details, especially not with someone like him. But he asked again, “Where’s the misis, ser?”

“Gone,” I spat, voice cold.

He raised his hand in surrender. He didn’t press anymore, but before he gave me the keys, he said, “Ser, stay safe, okey? Don’t drive too fast. Be careful on the road, okey? Take care of the car, and she will take care of you too.”

There was something soft and gentle in his tone that I did not immediately shoo away. I just nodded my thanks and took the keys.

The car drove smoothly for such an old, ugly thing like itself. I took it to a carwash and paid for a cleaning and a polish. Then I took it to an autoshop for a change of tires and for the mechanic to see if all parts were working. Money was no matter to me. But I was relieved anyway when I was given the signal that everything was good to go. I had already paid double what this car was worth. I didn’t think spending more money on it was worth it. Moments of second-guessing myself often popped up, especially on that first day. I deserved a better car. A shiny new one, top of the model manufactured only this year. But I only ever had to notice the missing wedding band on my left hand to remember I deserved to feel pathetic for a little while. My wife was dead. I was alone. I had nothing and no one. Not even a good car. Instead, I was stuck with this one. It could do for now.

I explored Metro Cebu for days on end. I drove around nice streets, looking at tarpaulins advertising apartments for rent. I took photos of the contact numbers for future reference. I thought about what kind of place I was going to get. It had to be small enough for a single widower like me, but big enough that it wasn’t cramped. The apartment had to be in a building that wasn’t too pretty or clean, but not one that smelled of piss and mouse droppings. I drove past a gated subdivision. The design of the high walls, the iron gate fence manned by guards, and the houses I could see from the road reminded me of my old house back in Manila. The familiarity dazed me. I almost found myself driving to the gate, but I turned away just in time.

I didn’t want to go back to my hotel just yet. I decided I would find a nice overlooking cafe for an afternoon snack. I hadn’t eaten a nice meal in a while. Surely I deserved even just a measly coffee. I turned the knob on the radio, trying to find a channel I liked.

Static spewed out. Undecipherable words in newscaster tones spurred a feeling of emergency despite how mundane the actual news was. Bits and pieces of pop music. Then silence.

I frowned, turning the knob this way and that. No signal came. Silence. Not even static. I was about to hit the damned thing when a whisper came out.

"Watch..."

It was so quiet that I almost missed it. I thought it must be part of some radio host's commentary or an ad for a new movie or show, but then it repeated. Louder. More insistent.

"Watch out..."

A loud beep startled me. I jumped in my seat and saw in time a truck headed my way. I wrestled with the ancient steering wheel, steering the old sedan back to my lane from where I had almost drifted into the opposite side of the road. The truck blurred past just as I managed to park the sedan. I could almost see myself crushed and killed had I not swerved in time.

The radio churned static, and my eyes drifted back to it. I sat for a full minute, breathing heavily, still gripping the steering wheel as if it could steady the quaking in my chest. Nothing came out of the radio, and the silence made me think I had imagined the voice that had warned me from meeting my early demise. But I only had to focus on the car engine’s ticking under the hood, so similar to how my wife used to cluck her tongue at me when she complained I drove too fast. Though it was a soft metallic beat, I only heard a nagging voice, alongside the drumming in my chest. I cracked my left knuckles, feeling acutely the missing wedding band.

“Damn you,” I muttered under my breath in the car. I hit the steering wheel. My voice was hoarse. “Old radio. I must be hearing things.”

I let myself calm down for a few seconds before bringing the engine back to life with a flick of my keys. The silence was too heavy. Hearing the car sputter made me feel less alone. Out of habit, I checked the rearview mirror before I shifted the gear. For a fleeting second, I saw what I thought was the familiar curve of a shoulder, pale and blurred, in the backseat.

I blinked and turned around. It was gone.

“Now I am definitely seeing things,” I said.

When I arrived back at the hotel, I had more or less thrown the horrid experience into the back of my mind. I was feeling chipper after seeing the beautiful views as I drove. I got out of the old car and locked it, testing the handle twice to make sure the doors were shut. Just as I was about to enter the hotel, I heard a faint click. As if the central lock had undone itself.

I stopped and stared. In the darkening sunset, the car lights suddenly flickered on—a brief bright red, like a sigh—then went dark again. A sigh of disappointment. I felt indignation and fury rise in my head as I stomped back to the insidious, wretched sedan. I was not about to feel less than a stupid, broken, ugly car when I could have gotten something infinitely better. Wasn’t I too good for this kind of impertinence? If it weren’t for me, this stupid machine would be unloved, unwanted. I unlocked the door and peered inside. A strong smell of floral air freshener assaulted my nostrils, though the interior remained bare of any accessories. I rummaged around to find the source of the cloying, sickly sweet smell, but came up empty. With a growl, I slammed the door shut. I resisted the urge to smack the hood or kick the wheels.

Later that night, as I lay alone in my too-hard bed inside the substandard hotel room, I convinced myself it was all an electrical problem. Of course the radio would make noises on its own. Of course the locks would glitch. Of course the light would flicker.

But when I closed my eyes and replayed the image of that truck that almost ended me, I couldn’t shake the sound of my wife’s voice from when she was still alive. Her quiet, rasping voice, the tone that grated on my ears when she would beg me, “Watch out, slow down, please.” That stupid, useless fear in her eyes, as if she could actually believe that her devoted, loving husband would ever intentionally put her life in danger. She was just too dramatic, too emotional.

I slept. I dreamed. I saw her in my mind’s eye, her pale shoulder almost brushing mine as she leaned over into the driver’s seat in an attempt to calm me down.

Outside, the car slumbered. For now.

The next few days blurred together in a haze that reminded me of heat rising from the asphalt. I tried to make a life in Cebu. Scouted apartments, ate breakfasts at local cafes and restaurants, and stared too long at the city skyline, trying to convince myself I saw promise in it. Cebu was no little province; it was turning into a metro giant of its own. But it was no match for Manila. I reminded myself that my being here was to find something different from my old life, to make something great.

Everywhere I went, I drove the car. She was smooth, obedient, almost eager. I began to think I had misjudged her. Maybe I had bought her well after all. The engine purred when I turned the key. The radio always played my favorite songs, no matter what station I tuned it to. I found myself speaking more and more to the car, half in jest, half in habit.

“See, you’re not so bad,” I said once, patting the dashboard. “You just needed a man to take care of and guide you.”

The radio responded. A burst of static, then a song. Her favorite one from years ago. I froze. The opening chords burrowed into my brain, unearthing memories. We used to argue about that song. She said it was about finding joy and freedom. I said it was corny and useless, that she had bad taste for liking it.

This song playing now must be a coincidence. That’s what I told myself as I switched off the radio. Sometimes old channels loop weird playlists.

Later, when I parked, I caught my reflection in the side mirror. My eyes stared back, red and stinging with unshed tears that I thought I had successfully kept from escaping. Guess I was wrong. My hair was sticking up in places, my hand having run through the strands without my noticing. I sat shivering and realized it wasn’t just about emotion. I saw the air conditioner turned all the way up, her preferred setting because she tended to run hot. The air conditioner was cold enough to numb my fingertips.

I looked at myself in the rearview mirror again. Disheveled, trembling, face white, eyes red. Jaw clenched tight. A vein throbbed in my forehead. I couldn’t decide if I looked angry or pitiful. Either way, I laughed.

“You hate me when I look like this, don’t you?” I said to no one.

A single click from the dashboard answered me.

One evening, I drove up to the hills where I could see the city lights in the distance, like stars falling into blurry circles. The sky was purple and blue, like bruises around the eyes. It began to rain halfway up the hill. I grit my teeth in annoyance. All I wanted was a perfect, quiet evening. A night with no one accusing me of anything or disturbing the peace with their crying. I glared at the weeping heavens.

The wipers jammed. A smear of rain blurred the windshield. I was forced to stop, unable to see the way anymore. I cursed and reached to fix the lever, but before I could touch it, the blades stuttered to life on their own, gliding smoothly and clearing the view.

“Smart girl,” I said, both proud and condescending. The car was finally learning.

I crawled up the hill, the rain thickening into a mini-storm. The wretched tires fought to grip the slippery mud. The headlights dimmed and brightened rhythmically, as though breathing from the effort I forced the car into. Then, from the radio came a low hum—not quite music, not quite static. It drawled on, just loud enough for a certain murmur that almost felt comprehensible. I leaned closer to listen.

A lullaby. The car was humming a lullaby. Her lullaby.

Something inside me finally snapped. I slammed the radio off. I jammed my foot onto the pedal.

“You never let me rest!” I said, voice shaking in anger. “Always have something to say, huh? Always have to be heard? Just shut the fuck up!”

The silence that followed did not mollify me. It was alive, like a challenge, daring me to berate the car again. Outside, the rain had stopped. The city skyline came into view. The lights were dimmer than I expected. The view wasn’t as inviting or beautiful as I thought it'd be. I stayed there, sitting for a long time, convincing myself that the effort to get here was worth the mediocre view.

When I finally dared to start the engine again, I saw the car’s windows fogged up from the inside. On the passenger seat window, a faint outline appeared. Small, dainty fingers dragged down the glass, like claws begging to be let out. I wiped it away before I could think.

The days brought me no peace. I felt eyes watching me. Every passerby, every other customer in cafes, even the traffic enforcers—their gazes lingered too long. Once, a tricycle driver met my eyes as I was driving, and he suddenly crossed himself. I was about to roll down my window and shout at him, “What the hell is your problem?” before I eventually calmed myself. I told myself he crossed himself because we had just passed a church. It was just accidental eye contact. But a child once pointed at the car I was driving and whispered something to his mother.

That night, tossing and turning in my dingy hotel bed, the car’s alarm went off in the parking lot at three a.m. I sprang from my room, stormed downstairs in pajamas, barefoot, teeth chattering more from anger than the misty morning. The lights flashed as the alarm wailed.

“You’re not her!” I yelled, slamming the hood down. The alarm died instantly. I looked at the car and saw a shadow sitting in the backseat. A woman’s silhouette, sitting upright, looking through the dark glass. I could make out sad, bruised eyes and a cut lip from that ghastly face.

“You wanted attention,” I whispered. “You always did.”

I turned away, ignoring the feeling of invisible eyes following me.

The next morning, I decided to sell the old car. Enough was enough.

I brought it back to the warehouse I had originally bought it from. The pot-bellied man refused me the moment he saw me. He shooed me away repeatedly, saying, “No returns! No returns, ser! We talked about this na!”

Then I took the car to a small fix-up shop. If I couldn’t sell it whole, maybe I could sell it for parts. But the thin mechanic with greasy hands, who never came clean even after wiping himself many times with his towel, shook his head at me. He barely looked at the engine before saying, “No, boss. This car—bad energy. Better not touch.”

I laughed in his face. “Superstitious nonsense. Katangahan.”

He didn’t argue or get mad at the insult. He just shook his head and crossed himself.

By that afternoon, I had driven to three other stops. All refused. No one wanted to touch it, much less buy it. One man even muttered about the car’s beat-up appearance, saying, “Bugbog sarado.” I almost bristled in defensiveness, but remembered he was talking about the car. I left before he could finish his sentence.

That night, as I drove back to the hotel, the radio came alive again. But it wasn’t a song this time. It was a news broadcast with the kind of grim sternness you couldn’t ignore or shake.

“...a woman in Manila took her own life. Prior to the suicide, she had reported instances of domestic abuse but received no action or assistance from local police…”

I froze. The static chewed at the edges of the announcer’s words. Then, a sharp static as the news channel changed. Another broadcast, different:

“...an accident involving a silver sedan…”

I ripped the doorknob off the radio, trying to silence it. But the news kept droning. I found myself caught in a cacophony of her voice, her lullaby, her favorite song, her cries as she begged me to stop.

“Stop!” I pleaded.

“Watch out,” answered the speakers. The air grew colder. Roses invaded my nostrils. A shadowy figure lingered in the rearview mirror.

“Stop it!” I yelled again. Blank, haunted eyes stared at me. I pressed my foot on the gas pedal. The car lurched at unprecedented speed up the highway. Other cars beeped at me as I raced past, but I had to keep going, as though speed could help me run from this nightmare.

“You think you can scare me?” I challenged the sedan. “You couldn’t even keep yourself together! You’re weak! You’re nothing without me!”

A humming came from the engine, building into a crescendo that sent vibrations up my spine. The views outside fell away as I kept speeding up the hill.

When I turned to the passenger mirror, she was there. There was no doubt now. Face white with blue veins, eyes red and purple, swollen with both tears and bruises. Her wild hair fell in blank ink, wispy like ash. Her mouth puckered in an ugly frown—the same face I had seen in the coffin before I sold my wedding ring and all my other belongings.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t continue my yelling or my threats. She reached forward, almost like how she used to reach toward me to calm me down. But instead of a gentle caress, this time, she put her cold, dead hands on top of mine and pulled. The steering wheel jerked violently. The car swerved. I tried to correct it, but the tires caught the gravel. In front of me, the metal barrier separating the road from the hillsides came nearer and nearer until the old sedan broke through them with a crash.

The last thing I saw was my wife’s face. Smiling. Almost tender. Then the world tilted into blackness.

REPUBLIC OF THE PHILIPPINES
Cebu City Police Office
Incident Report

Report No.: 2025-1104-CR-092
Date/Time of Report: 04 November 2025, 08:30
Reporting Officer: P/Inspector [Name Redacted]
Incident Type: Fatal Motor Vehicle Accident

I. Personal Information of Deceased

• Name: [Redacted]

• Age: 38 years old

• Sex: Male

• Address: Previously Manila, recently relocated to Cebu (moved three weeks ago)

• Next of Kin: None; spouse deceased (wife committed suicide one week prior to relocation)

II. Circumstances of Incident

On 03 November 2025, at approximately 22:45, the deceased was involved in a single-vehicle accident along [road name redacted], Cebu City. Preliminary investigation indicates that the vehicle, a second-hand sedan, veered off the roadway and entered a ditch. The deceased was pronounced dead at the scene by responding emergency personnel.

Witnesses in the area reported that the deceased had been observed speaking aloud to himself prior to the vehicle’s loss of control. No other vehicles were involved.

III. Scene Investigation

• Vehicle: Second-hand sedan, previously purchased from [redacted] junk shop.

• Condition of Vehicle: Intact aside from post-crash damage; no mechanical failure immediately noted.

• CCTV Evidence: Surveillance from the hotel where the deceased stayed captured multiple instances of the deceased roaming the parking lot, speaking aloud, and striking the car in apparent frustration. Hotel staff corroborated observations of erratic behavior in the days leading up to the incident.

IV. Autopsy Findings

Conducted at Cebu City Medical Examiner’s Office:

• Cause of Death: Multiple traumatic injuries sustained in vehicular crash.

  • Neck fracture

  • Facial contusions and bruising

  • Compression of heart and lungs under fractured ribs

• Toxicology: No alcohol or controlled substances detected

• Additional Notes: Findings consistent with high-speed single-vehicle impact. No indication of foul play.

V. Contributing Factors

• Deceased’s recent relocation and reported grief following spouse’s suicide

• Observed mental instability and possible emotional distress

• No evidence of mechanical failure or external interference

VI. Vehicle History

• Previous owner: Deceased female from Manila

• Incident history: Vehicle previously involved in fatal accident resulting in prior owner’s death (two years ago)

• Status: No further sales authorized from previous owner

VII. Preliminary Conclusion

Based on witness accounts, autopsy results, and scene investigation, the incident is currently classified as a probable suicide or accidental death resulting from mental instability linked to recent bereavement. Investigation remains open pending further forensic analysis.

Reporting Officer:
[Signature Redacted]
P/Inspector [Name Redacted]
Cebu City Police Office

End of Report