Where the Winds Begin

By Alvin E. Lauran

'In the quiet coastal town of Miagao, where the sea hums softly against the shore and the winds carry the scent of salt and sun, two boys grow up learning that some bonds are meant to last a lifetime.

Ely, the artist who sketches horizons he cannot reach, dreams of worlds beyond their small town. Kaloy, the scholar who

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ukiyoto Publishing
• Release date: Dec 7, 2025
• ISBN: 9789353536756

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Shores We Left

S

an Joaquin, Iloilo — early morning. The waves came in slow, like breath returning after sleep. Yam crouched by the water’s edge, steadying his camera on the tripod. The morning light was soft and gold, breaking gently across the sea like spilled honey. He adjusted the focus, the horizon framed just above the bow of a resting fishing boat.

Beyond the lens, the world stirred awake: fishermen hauling nets, children balancing on driftwood, and women setting up small stalls of taho and puto by the road. The wind carried a faint chorus of greetings — Maayong aga! — warm and unhurried.

Behind him, the aroma of brewed kapeng barako seeped through the open window of Alon Café, his mother’s seaside stall. Yam! Kape na diri! she called, her voice rising above the radio’s faint melody — an old Asin song about the sea and remembering.

He smiled faintly. Sige lang, Ma. One more shot.

He pressed record. The camera captured the tide rolling in and retreating — a rhythm too familiar to notice but too tender to forget. This footage, he decided, would open his short film for Communication and Media Studies: The Sea as Memory.

But the truth was, it wasn’t just a film. It was a confession he couldn’t say out loud.

Yam tilted his camera slightly and lingered on the shallows. This was where everything began.

Flashback: Seven Years Earlier

The sea was louder back then — or maybe it was because they were children who believed every sound was calling their name.

Faster, Yam! Sebastian shouted, sprinting barefoot across the wet sand. His laughter was bright, boyish, reckless. Yam followed, clutching his slippers, their footprints tumbling over each other until the tide began to erase them.

They stopped by the old breakwater, breathing hard, their hair wild from the wind. The air smelled of salt and tanglad, of sunburn and dried fish from the nearby huts.

Seb threw a pebble into the water. Someday, I’ll live in the city. Makadto ko sa Manila. I’ll study there. Maybe be someone.

Yam smirked. Manila’s too far. You’ll get lost.

Seb grinned. Then you’ll find me.

The boy’s confidence always made Yam’s chest ache — though he never said why. They had spent every summer on this same shore: collecting shells, pretending driftwood was treasure, and building castles that never lasted until dusk.

One afternoon, they carved their names on a fallen tree trunk: Yam + Seb, the letters shaky and uneven. They covered it with sand to keep it secret.

Promise we’ll still be friends when we’re old, Seb said.

Even when you get lost in Manila, Yam teased.

Even then.

They shook hands, both solemn and smiling. Behind them, the sea shimmered — as if it, too, was making a promise.

Present Day

A gust of wind pulled Yam back to the moment. He blinked, and the shore was empty again — only waves, shells, and silence.

He turned off the camera and sat on the sand. The sunlight was climbing now, scattering across the water in molten gold. He could still trace where that old tree trunk once lay — gone now, washed away years ago during a storm.

Even then. The words returned like a whisper.

His phone buzzed. He ignored it at first, too lost in thought. But when he checked the screen, his heart caught mid-beat.

New Student Enrolled: Sebastian Fuentebella — BS Communication and Media Studies, UP Visayas

For a moment, the sound of waves stopped. The whole morning seemed to hold its breath.

Sebastian. After all this time.

He looked at the horizon again. The same horizon they once ran toward as children, believing it could take them anywhere. And suddenly, it wasn’t just a shore anymore. It was a beginning he never finished.

He folded his tripod, packed his camera, and stood there for a while — watching the tide crawl toward his feet.

The shores we left, he whispered, never really stay behind.

The sea shimmered like it knew.

And in the hush of that morning, Yam realized — some tides always return.

Chapter 2

Miagao Mornings

U

niversity of the Philippines Visayas — Miagao Campus, Iloilo. The road to UP Visayas wound through green hills and sleepy barangays, where carabaos grazed lazily by the roadside and the air smelled faintly of rice husk and sea salt. Yam leaned against the jeepney window, his camera resting on his lap.

He watched the landscape pass — the slow rhythm of everyday Iloilo. Farmers bent over fields. Vendors setting up roadside stalls of bibingka and buko juice. The kind of morning that moved unhurried, like the province itself was taking its time to wake.

He took out his phone. No new messages. The notification from yesterday still sat there, unread but unforgettable:

Sebastian Fuentebella has enrolled in your class.

He locked the screen, sighed, and muttered under his breath, Of all the universities…

The jeepney turned the last curve, revealing the familiar red-brick silhouette of the UP Visayas main building — proud, sunlit, and framed by the sea below. The breeze shifted. Somewhere beyond the acacia trees, he could hear students laughing, a guitar being tuned, and the soft thump of sneakers on concrete.

UPV mornings always felt like new beginnings pretending not to be.

Yam entered the campus walkway with his camera slung around his neck, as always — his quiet armor. The lens cap hung from a string, swinging slightly as he walked. He liked hiding behind it, seeing the world through frames he could control.

Hoy, Yam!

He turned. Ina waved