Whispers Over Sagada

By Alvin E. Lauran

'In Sagada, some love is only heard by the wind.

Hiroshi, a grieving transfer student from Manila, finds unexpected warmth in Gian, a spirited local boy. Together, they explore the pine-shadowed cliffs, secret paths, and Hanging Coffins - carving a fragile love in a town where whispers carry judgment.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ukiyoto Publishing
• Release date: Nov 18, 2025
• ISBN: 9789353531546

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Boy from the Wind

T

he wind remembers. Long before the buses began to climb these roads, before cell towers crowned the ridges and tourists posed beside clouds, the wind already carried stories — of prayers whispered to the mountains, of love forbidden by tongues that feared the unseen.

I was here when two hearts met among the pines. I heard their laughter rise with the morning mist. I felt their silence when the world turned away. I remember them still — Gian, the boy of light, and Hiroshi, the boy who came with the wind.

Now, the wind returns to tell their story.

_____

The bus groaned its way up the narrow path to Sagada, winding through the morning fog that blurred the edges of the world. Hiroshi Kim sat by the window, his reflection ghosting across the glass — half in this world, half somewhere between memory and mist. His mother had loved this town once, she said it was where the soul could rest. Now she was gone, and he was returning alone, carrying her last letter that said only, Go home to the mountains. They will remember me.

The bus hissed to a stop by the roadside where pine needles carpeted the earth. Waiting was an elderly couple — his grandparents — their faces carved by both age and weather. His grandmother’s smile was gentle yet guarded. You’ve grown, she said, though they had not met since he was a child. His grandfather merely nodded, his silence as stern as the peaks beyond them.

As they walked the narrow paths to their wooden house, the cold wrapped around Hiroshi like a memory. Smoke rose from nearby kitchens, mingling with the scent of pine resin and damp soil. In the distance, church bells rang — slow, solemn, ancient — calling villagers to morning prayers. The sound floated over the valley, carried by the same wind that had once whispered other names, long forgotten.

That night, Hiroshi unpacked his mother’s old books and photographs, placing them carefully on a small desk beside the window. Outside, the wind murmured through the trees. He looked out and whispered, I’m here, Mom. The air seemed to answer with a sigh, soft and familiar.

The next day, his grandparents took him to the town’s public high school. Students stared as he entered — the pale-skinned newcomer, the half-Korean boy whose accent was faint and whose silence felt foreign. He kept to himself, clutching his sketchpad as though it were a shield.

By midday, he sat alone near a window overlooking the pine forest, sketching the shapes of clouds that looked like sleeping mountains. A shadow fell over his page.

Hey, said a warm voice. You draw really well.

Hiroshi looked up to see a boy with dark, sunlit eyes — Gian Dulnuan. His smile was easy, like sunlight breaking through fog. You’re new here, Gian added. I can show you around if you want.

Hiroshi hesitated, unsure if kindness in this place came without reason. But the boy’s smile stayed, patient and unafraid. Sure, Hiroshi said softly. I’d like that.

And so it began — quietly, like a leaf stirred by the wind.

The bell rang, the students scattered, and through the open window the mountain breeze slipped between them, carrying a promise it had kept for years: That even when the world forgets, the wind remembers.

Chapter 2

The First Bell

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he first bell of Sagada National High was not loud — not the sharp clang of city schools, but a hollow, echoing sound that rolled across the pine slopes, calling students like a slow heartbeat through the mist. Hiroshi stood by the gate that morning, his hands tucked in his pockets, his breath forming small ghosts in the cold air. Around him, students greeted each other in Ilokano and Kankanaey, laughter rising like birds startled from a field.

He felt apart from them — not only because of his accent or his fair skin, but because everything here seemed to move to a rhythm older than he could understand. The students bowed their heads as they passed the chapel on campus, some whispering prayers before class. The teachers nodded politely but kept their distance, uncertain how to place the quiet boy who always seemed to be listening to something they couldn’t hear.

Inside the classroom, the wooden floor creaked with every step. Hiroshi took a seat by the window again, as he had the day before, and opened his notebook. From there he could see the thin line of fog threading between pine trunks, and beyond it, the faint outline of cliffs that locals said held the resting souls of their ancestors.

The Hanging Coffins, Gian had told him yesterday, his eyes bright with pride. They say the higher you are, the closer you are to heaven.

Now, as the teacher called names from the attendance sheet, Hiroshi’s mind drifted to that image — of the sky holding the dead, of silence kept sacred above the world. He wondered what it felt like to belong to a place so steeped in faith that even the wind carried whispers of those who came before.

Mr. Kim?

Hiroshi blinked, realizing the teacher was waiting.

Yes, sir, he answered, his voice soft but clear.

A few students turned to look, their curiosity quick and unkind. Someone muttered, Korean, under their breath. He ignored it, focusing on the chalk that screeched faintly against the blackboard.

By recess, Gian found him again — as though the crowd naturally parted to let him through. He leaned over Hiroshi’s desk with a grin. You didn’t tell me you draw faces too, he said, nodding at the sketch on the page. It was of a pine tree bending under wind, but if one looked closely, its shape hinted at two silhouettes — side by side.

I just draw what I see, Hiroshi replied, embarrassed.

Well, you must see things no one else does, Gian said. Then he added, Walk home with me later? The fog’s really nice by four.

Hiroshi hesitated. His grandparents had mentioned curfews, and how elders frowned upon idle walks at dusk. But there was something about Gian — an openness that felt safe, and a sincerity that quieted his own guardedness.

Alright, Hiroshi said finally.

The afternoon bell sounded like a sigh over the mountains. Together, they took the path that wound past the schoolyard and down toward the lower terraces of Sagada, where stone houses clung to slopes and the smell of pine smoke lingered in the air.

So your mom was from here? Gian asked.

From Kiltepan, before she moved to Baguio for college, Hiroshi said. She met my dad there. He taught Korean literature.

That’s romantic, Gian said with a small laugh. A love story between fog and foreign winds.

Hiroshi smiled faintly. It didn’t last. She died last year.

Gian stopped walking. I’m sorry.

It’s alright, Hiroshi murmured. That’s why I came back. To find what she loved here.

They walked in silence after that, the sound of their footsteps muffled by pine needles. Children played with wooden tops by the roadside. A dog barked lazily from a veranda. Somewhere far above, bells from the church tolled the Angelus.

When they reached the stone steps leading to the cliffs, Gian pointed to the horizon. Look, he said. That’s where the Hanging Coffins are.

From that height, the valley looked like a bowl of clouds. The wooden coffins, tied and wedged into rock faces, seemed to float between worlds. Hiroshi’s breath caught at the sight. They’re beautiful, he whispered.

My lolo says the spirits guard us from there, Gian said. But they also watch when we do wrong.

What’s wrong? Hiroshi asked.

Anything the elders say is, Gian answered, half joking, half unsure.

They stood there for a long moment, shoulder to shoulder, neither speaking. The wind rose, lifting Gian’s hair, brushing across Hiroshi’s cheek like something living. For the first time since he arrived, Hiroshi felt the air wasn’t cold — it was alive, aware, listening.

The next few days settled into a rhythm — morning bells, lessons, the smell of pine resin mixing with chalk dust. Hiroshi began to understand the unspoken codes of Sagada life: greetings were short but sincere; laughter came sparingly but from the heart; prayers were whispered to both God and the mountain.

Yet he also began to feel the eyes — the watchfulness that trailed him whenever Gian lingered too long at his desk, or when they sat together under the pine tree behind the canteen.

One afternoon, a group of older boys passed by, their voices low but sharp.

Why’s Gian always with that foreigner? one said.

Maybe he’s teaching him Tagalog, another sneered.

Their laughter echoed as they walked away. Gian pretended not to hear, but Hiroshi saw the flicker in his eyes.

People talk, Hiroshi said softly.

They always do, Gian replied. But I don’t care.

And then, as though to prove it, he smiled and tossed a pinecone at Hiroshi. It hit his arm, and they both laughed — awkward at first, then freely. Their laughter carried across the schoolyard, light and defiant.

From a distance, a teacher looked up from the faculty window and frowned.

That night, the household was quiet except for the rhythmic creak of bamboo walls in the wind. Hiroshi’s grandfather sat by the fire, muttering prayers. His grandmother, gentle as ever, asked, How’s school?

It’s fine, Lola, Hiroshi said.

Good. Keep to your studies. Don’t forget the mountain has eyes, she murmured, stirring the pot.

He looked up. What do you mean?

She smiled, but her gaze was distant. The spirits of Sagada watch over us. But they don’t always understand strangers.

Later, in his room, Hiroshi sketched again — the Hanging Coffins, the cliffs, the way the wind seemed to wrap around them. But in the middle of the drawing, almost without realizing, he added a figure standing beside him — dark hair, bright eyes, a smile that belonged to the mountain light itself.

When he was done, he closed the sketchbook, pressing it to his chest as though hiding a secret from the walls, the ancestors, even the wind outside.

But the wind had already seen.

It slipped through the cracks, through the trees, past the church tower where the bell waited for morning — and in its whisper, there was a question older than time itself:

What happens when love blooms where it must not?

Outside, the fog thickened, and the town fell into silence, ready for the first bell to toll again — calling them, once more, to faith, to duty, to dreams they were forbidden to keep.

Chapter 3

Echoes in the Pine Forest

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he air was cool that morning, the kind that smelled faintly of wet earth and pine sap. Dew still clung to the grass around Sagada High as the students gathered in the open yard, waiting for the new group assignments.

Class, your midterm project, announced Ma’am Baldoza, the history teacher, will be a documentation of Sagada’s cultural heritage — traditions, beliefs, and practices that define who we are. Each pair must submit a short report and presentation.

She looked down her list. "Dulnuan, Gian — and Kim,