1879.

The first thing I noticed about the Philippines was the air—warm, heavy, alive. The moment I stepped off the Spanish galleon, the sea breeze carried the scent of salt, old wood, and the faint sweetness of tropical trees swaying along the coastline. The harbor was alive—officers directing cargo, merchants bargaining, horse-drawn carriages rolling through dusty streets beneath the tropical sun. Everything felt unfamiliar, yet fascinating, as though time moved differently here.

My family had only intended to visit. Father spoke of it during the voyage. I remember standing beside him as the islands slowly appeared on the horizon, their green mountains rising from the sea. The wind tugged at my coat while waves struck the hull. Observing new places had always fascinated me, and this colony—alive with culture and color—felt centuries old.

"Observe first, Percy," my father said calmly. "A wise man never rushes decisions."

"Is that your way of saying we might stay longer than planned?" I asked.

"You know your father too well," my mother said softly.

"Business speaks louder than plans," my father replied.

What began as a visit quickly changed. Our family’s business flourished in Manila, supported by Spanish officials. Merchants and administrators began recognizing the Hewitt name. Warehouses expanded, and before long, a visit quietly turned into a permanent residence. Our estate—lantern-lit gardens, wide halls, and tall capiz windows—welcomed sunlight each morning.

Adapting to the colony came naturally. Streets fascinated me—markets overflowing with tropical fruits, towering stone walls of Intramuros casting shadows at sunset, church bells echoing through the city. I pursued medicine with discipline, though numbers and strategy often came more easily.

"Percy," my professor said, adjusting his spectacles, "you solved a problem that took the others hours… in minutes."

"Efficiency saves time, professor," I replied politely. "And time is something no one can afford to waste."

Life inside the Hewitt estate settled into quiet routine. Servants moved gracefully while gardens remained peaceful beneath mango and acacia trees. One afternoon, an elderly servant approached with a tray.

"Young master Percy, your tea has grown cold again," he said gently.

"Has it?" I asked, glancing at the cup.

"You were reading for three hours," he replied.

"Then I must thank the book for stealing my attention," I said politely. "I hope the kitchen will forgive me."

Despite the household’s size, one matter remained—every member had a personal maid except me. One evening during dinner, Mother placed her fork down.

"Percy, this cannot continue," my mother said.

"May I ask what cannot continue, Mother?" I asked calmly.

"You being the only member without a personal attendant," my father answered.

"I assure you, Father, I am quite capable of dressing myself," I replied.

"That is not the point," my mother said patiently.

"The candidates will arrive tomorrow. You will choose one," my father stated.

"You say that as though it were a medical procedure," I said with a quiet sigh.

"Consider it practice for your future profession," my father replied.

The following afternoon, the receiving hall was filled with quiet tension. Sunlight streamed through capiz windows, illuminating polished floors while several young women stood nervously in a line. Servants waited along the walls. One maid approached and bowed.

"Young master Percy, these are the candidates," the maid said politely.

"Thank you," I replied with a nod.

Choosing someone to serve me was never easy, but I understood the expectation. I observed the line calmly, taking my time. Most lowered their eyes, hands clasped nervously. Then my gaze paused on you—composed, quiet, confident without arrogance.

"Young master, you may choose anyone," a servant whispered beside me.

“I choose her.” I said and looking straight at you