Signs left Behind

Chapter 4 - A Gentle Touch

Matthew had already spent two weeks in Moalboal, working at the Clinic.

Time felt suspended as if he had been living there for months rather than days. Perhaps it was the slow pace of life, or maybe the fact that his days had been so packed that he barely had a chance to pause and take it all in.

Mornings began early, with the soft hum of the ocean and the distant crowing of roosters. When he stepped outside, the sun had already begun its ascent, painting everything in a warm, golden light as the last of the stars faded from the sky.

There was always something to do at the hospital—patients to see, supplies to organize, or procedures to oversee. The facility was small, underfunded, and understaffed, but the people made up for it with grit and resilience.

The local nurses were kind, though reserved. At first, they observed Matthew with caution, their expressions unreadable. He supposed they had seen foreign doctors like him come and go—well-meaning strangers eager to "make a difference" before disappearing back into their comfortable lives. Yet, despite his initial detachment, they treated him with a kindness he wasn’t sure he deserved, offering warmth and joy he struggled to return.

There were moments when he had to use a firmer, more authoritative tone, with frustration rising at their slow pace. But guilt always followed swiftly—these were hardworking people who, despite his impatience and unfriendly behavior, met him with gratitude and respect. To avoid further entanglements, he kept his distance, focusing solely on his work, even when their smiles made that nearly impossible.

They often shared homemade lunches with him, offered fresh fruit, or showed him pictures of their families. Those small gestures of generosity came from people who owed him nothing yet sought to make him feel welcome. And though he was aware of it, he couldn’t be what they wanted him to be. Every time he failed to return their empathy, he felt dehumanized.

So he worked tirelessly, spending the rest of his time sleeping, avoiding unnecessary interactions with colleagues whose names he barely knew.

Dolores, the clinic nurse in charge, was a tiny woman who never left his side. At times, her constant presence felt suffocating to him, as if she was afraid to disappoint him. She took care of his patients, filtered them before they reached him, and even brought him food from home, like a mother or a sister. She was fifteen years older than he, yet she looked far younger, like all the people there, blessed by the slow rhythm of life, the power of the sun, and the freshness of their food. She lived with her mother in a bamboo house near the clinic, something Matthew had noticed while passing by with his rented bicycle.

Unlike the others, she never spoke about having children or family, beyond mentioning her "ina" (mother in Filipino). While his colleagues often shared photos of their kids or introduced him to visiting relatives, Dolores never did.

That was all he knew about the people he worked with.

For the past two weeks, his life followed a steady routine of work, surrounded by locals, facing challenges vastly different from those he had encountered in Boston. Yet he remained inwardly focused, allowing only fleeting moments to break through—like a child laughing after he handed them a lollipop or a woman clasping his hand in gratitude, speaking in a language he had not yet learned.

But at the end of each day, the sunset, with its vibrant reds and oranges melting into the sea, granted him a rare moment of calm and hope. It was the only glimpse of life outside his work that he permitted himself, a reevaluation of why he had come—to escape, yes, but also, perhaps, to rebuild. To find a part of himself he feared was lost or didn’t exist.

Every night, he sat outside his room, staring at the stars, searching for meaning in the vastness of the universe, lulled by the sounds of nature until exhaustion overtook him, and he finally surrendered to sleep.

Sleep was definitely a winner after all. He had never slept like he did in Moalboal, and he wondered if it was the sea air, the silence, or simply the exhaustion finally catching up with him. Whatever it was, his body felt lighter, his mind less cluttered—though not entirely at peace.

Every day, he spent his lunch break at the local food market near the clinic. But that day, an urgent call from a community center outside the village disrupted his plans.

“A child has been injured while playing football,” Dolores relayed the message, and without hesitation, Matthew took a tuk-tuk, showing the driver the directions on his phone, silently willing him to hurry.

The driver dropped him at the front gate of a large house surrounded by Almaciga trees with tall, slender trunks.

A nun waiting outside the gate greeted him with a worried expression, leading him quickly to the courtyard at the back. As soon as he turned the corner, dozens of children glanced at Matthew, their eyes locking onto him.

He stopped for a moment, taking in the scene—a space adapted for the children. He felt their curious looks on him, an unfamiliar presence in their world. "Doctor, doctor!" they called out, pointing at him with tiny fingers.

At the center of the courtyard, an adult figure rose from where she had been kneeling, making space as he approached. When she turned to face him, her eyes met his, and he immediately recognized her.

It was the same woman he had seen at the café two weeks ago. The same woman who had caught his attention with her composed demeanor and the warmth she exuded while guiding the children.

He hesitated for a second, caught off guard by her presence and her striking blue eyes. She must have noticed his stare because a slight flush appeared on her cheeks. Running a hand through her long, dark hair, she composed herself and gestured for him to come closer, directing his attention to the injured child writhing in pain on the ground.

Matthew came closer and, kneeling beside the boy, began his assessment, feeling her presence beside him as she gently held the child’s small hand, whispering reassurances.

"Good news," he said after a moment. "The leg isn’t broken."

She sighed in relief and repeated his words to the boy, calling him Nathaniel.

"It’s just a sprain and a bad abrasion," Matthew continued. "I’ll take care of it, and in a few days, you’ll be back to playing football." He offered the boy a small smile, the most warmth he could muster.

She stayed beside him, along with all the other children, watching his every move.

He felt the weight of their expectations, the responsibility of the moment pressing down on him. He worked carefully, disinfecting the wound and bandaging Nathaniel’s leg as steadily as possible, aware of how much they relied on him.

When he finished, he was almost disappointed that his task was over. He had never felt so important as in that moment.

Then, rising to his feet, he hesitated before speaking. "I’ll come back in two days to check on him, but he’ll be fine soon. I promise." He wasn’t sure why he used those words, as if he owed her something.

She extended her hand in gratitude, and he took it, pausing momentarily without speaking. Now that she seemed more at ease, he could see the softness of her smile—the same smile that had caught his attention that day at the café.

Feeling a sudden panic under her gaze, he lowered his eyes instead to her figure. She was so effortlessly beautiful that it unsettled him.

He decided he would send a nurse to check on Nathaniel next time. There was no way he wanted to see her again.

So he returned to the hospital, diving back into his work—the only thing he could control—waiting for the sun to set and for the night to once again consume his thoughts.

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“A story of love, loss, and the invisible threads that connect us.” Here is the entire section where, every week, I will share 2 chapters of my short novel. I hope you will enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing it.