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She lived alone in an aging teachers’ dormitory attached to San Isidro Public Elementary School, a faded concrete building at the edge of a provincial town in the Philippines. During typhoon season, the metal roofing rattled so violently that sleep became a negotiation with noise. The hallways smelled faintly of chalk dust, damp wood, and boiled rice from the communal kitchen.
Her room was narrow and sparse. A single bed with a thin mattress. A wooden desk scarred by generations of teachers who had carved their frustrations into it with ballpoint pens. A standing fan that squeaked every time it rotated left. A small bookshelf crammed with donated textbooks and dog-eared novels that had crossed oceans before landing in her hands.
Some days she ate nothing but rice and salt.
Some nights she fell asleep with lesson plans still open on her lap, red pen resting across her chest.
A teacher’s salary was small.
