The Portrait

That Face in the Portrait

The midday sun beat down mercilessly as Diego traversed the winding streets of Angono, his usual route replaced by a yearning he couldn't quite define. He found himself drawn away from the vibrant hubbub of Doña Aurora Street, the famed heart of the town's art scene, and towards a small, secluded alleyway. Tucked away amidst the whispering bougainvillea and weathered brick walls, he stumbled upon El Pasado, a name that resonated with an eerie familiarity: "The Past."

Hesitantly, he pushed open the weathered wooden door. The air inside was cool and laden with the faint scent of oil paint and old paper. The gallery was eerily quiet, devoid of even the usual soft chatter of art enthusiasts. Sunlight streamed through a high window, illuminating a collection of paintings unlike any he had seen before. Each canvas transported him to a bygone era, depicting scenes from the early days of Spanish colonization in the Philippines: women in baro't saya tending to gardens, stoic men clad in elaborately embroidered camisas, and bustling marketplaces teeming with life under the watchful gaze of towering churches.

Drawn by an invisible thread, Diego found himself transfixed before a particular portrait hanging in the corner. His breath hitched in his throat as his eyes met hers—the girl from the bus. The same captivating gaze, the same gentle curve of her lips, captured in all their brilliance on canvas. Time seemed to suspend itself as he became lost in her depths, a myriad of emotions swirling within him: recognition, wonder, and a strange sense of longing. Suddenly, a voice startled him.

"A beautiful piece, isn't it?"

Diego turned to see an elderly woman standing behind him, her eyes sparkling with a youthful vitality that belied her age. She wore a simple terno, a traditional Filipino dress, that seemed to belong to the very era depicted in the paintings.

"Do you know who she is?" Diego asked, unable to tear his gaze from the portrait.

The woman smiled enigmatically.

"She was the muse, the inspiration behind many a creation in this very gallery,"

She said it with her voice like the rustling of old parchment. "But like so many things of the past, she is lost to time."

Diego felt a pang of empathy for the artist who had captured the woman's essence on canvas. 

"Do you know where she might be?" he inquired, hoping against hope for a chance encounter.

The woman's smile faded, replaced by a knowing look. 

"Some things, young man," she said gently, "are best left undisturbed in the brushstrokes of memory."

The old woman's cryptic words hung heavy in the air, leaving Diego bewildered. Their meaning tantalized him, just beyond his grasp. 

"I don't quite understand," he confessed, hesitantly drawing out his words. "Do you know who the woman is in the portrait?"

A flicker of concern crossed the woman's face. "She was loved, but lost," she replied, her voice soft. 

Diego, driven by a yearning he couldn't explain, felt a desperate need to connect with the woman. 

"Maybe," he began, his voice barely a whisper, "maybe I've fallen in love with her. I need to meet her. Can you tell me where to find her? Please."

The woman's gaze held his, piercing his resolve with a question heavier than any answer. 

"Son," she said, her voice gaining strength, "are you prepared for the consequences of disrupting the past? Are you truly brave enough to face the unknown?"