The bells of San Alejo rang low and slow, their worn chimes drifting over the rice fields and dirt roads like a sigh. It was rare for the bells to sound in such a manner—less for celebration, more for ceremony.
The entire town stirred in cautious excitement, gathering outside the small chapel that sat at the town's center, its whitewashed walls flaking under the relentless heat.
Maria tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, balancing a basket of freshly cut flowers against her hip. Her mother had insisted she help decorate the chapel for the arrival of the new friar.
"Make it beautiful," her mother had said, pushing the basket into her arms.
"It's not every day someone important comes here."
Important.
Maria doubted it.
Men from Manila were always the same. Distant, bored, already looking for a way to leave. But duty was duty.
She moved carefully among the others, weaving the flowers into rough garlands, draping them over the doorway and the altar. Her hands worked automatically, but her mind wandered.
They said he was young. Younger than most friars sent to small towns like theirs.
A mistake?
A punishment?
No one knew. No one asked.
As the sun crept higher, a soft murmur rippled through the gathered crowd.
He was here.
Maria straightened, wiping her hands on her skirt, and turned to look.
The cart came into view first—an old thing, pulled by oxen, trundling down the dusty road. Behind it walked a figure dressed in the simple brown robes of a friar, the cloth catching the light in places.
He was tall, his shoulders straight despite the long journey, his head uncovered and dark hair neatly combed back.
He looked...
Different.
Not worn or bitter like the others.
Not burdened.
There was a lightness to the way he moved, as if the road itself could not weigh him down.
Maria found herself staring without meaning to.
The friar—Father Alonzo, she reminded herself—reached the chapel steps. He paused, taking in the people gathered, the crooked houses, the cracked stone of the chapel.
Then he smiled.
It was a small smile, but it carried across the space between them like a breath of warm air.
Not the smile of a man who pitied them.
The smile of a man who saw them—and did not turn away.
Father Pablo, the town's old, half-blind priest, shuffled forward to greet him. Maria could not hear the words exchanged, but she saw Father Alonzo bow slightly, humbling himself before the elder.
A respectful son before a father.
Her chest tightened strangely.
A few children, too young to know better, ran forward to tug at Alonzo's robes. Instead of frowning or waving them off, he knelt among them, speaking softly, smiling again.
The children laughed, climbing over him like puppies.
Maria smiled too, catching herself too late.
The mass that followed was simple.
The chapel was small, its pews rough-hewn and uncomfortable, but everyone squeezed inside.
Maria sat near the back with her mother and younger brother, the smell of fresh flowers and candle wax thick around them.
Father Alonzo stood at the altar, the old crucifix looming behind him.
When he spoke, his voice filled the space, rich and clear.
His Spanish was smooth, but he tempered it with careful pauses, using words that even the simplest farmer could understand.
He had learned their tongue as well—stiff, but understandable.
He did not stumble or sneer.
"Brothers and sisters," he said, "I come not as a master, but as a servant. I come to share the burdens you carry."
Maria found herself listening, truly listening, for the first time in a long while.
He spoke not of punishment, but of hope.
Not of sin, but of strength.
And though she told herself it was foolish, something inside her—something small and wild—stirred.
When the mass ended, the townspeople crowded around to greet him.
Maria stayed back, letting others press forward.
Children clutched at his hands.
Old women touched the hem of his robe.
Men clapped him on the back with rough affection.
He laughed with them, not above them.
Maria watched, hands twisting in her skirt.
Later, after the sun had begun to fall and the crowds had thinned, Maria stayed behind to help clean the chapel.
She swept the floors, gathered wilted flowers, and wiped down the wooden benches.
Father Alonzo remained too, speaking with Father Pablo near the altar.
She could hear fragments of their conversation.
"...needs repair... roof might not last the rains..."
"...we'll find a way. God provides..."
"...already more life here than in many cities."
Their voices were low, kind, filled with easy respect.
Maria moved quietly, not wishing to disturb them, but as she passed near the front, her foot caught on a loose stone.
The basket of flowers tumbled from her arms, scattering petals across the floor.
"Ah—!" she gasped, reaching for them.
Before she could gather them, a hand appeared beside hers, helping her pick up the blooms.
She looked up—and met Father Alonzo's eyes for the first time up close.
They were dark, deep brown, warm and steady.
He smiled again, a simple, genuine smile.
"No harm done," he said gently, his Spanish slow and careful.
"You honor this house with your work."
Maria's cheeks burned. She ducked her head, mumbling, "Thank you, Padre."
He helped her gather the last of the flowers before standing.
When he spoke again, it was softer, almost confidential.
"San Alejo will be beautiful in time. I can see it already."
And then he turned back to Father Pablo, as if nothing more had passed between them.
Maria clutched the flowers to her chest, heart hammering.
It was nothing.
A small kindness.
A simple compliment.
Yet it felt like a spark had caught somewhere deep inside her.
She did not understand it.
But she would remember it.