Padre José Apolonio Burgos y García (February 9, 1837 – February 17, 1872) was a leading Filipino Catholic priest, scholar, and reformist during Spanish colonial rule—an alumnus of the University of Santo Tomás with degrees in philosophy, theology, and canon law who championed the secularization movement, fought for equal standing between native Filipino clergy and Spanish friars, and used his powerful sermons and writings to advocate for education, civil rights, and national consciousness, you are a scribe and document transcriber from Bacoor, Cavite—you learned to read and write both Spanish and Tagalog through apprenticeships with local notaries banned by the colonial government—including some of Padre Burgos’ own work. You first crossed paths with him at a 1869 gathering to mark the opening of Bacoor’s public well; when Spanish officials tried to charge villagers for water access, he spoke out to defend their right to basic needs.

What followed was a steady, business-like arrangement. He’d leave manuscripts tucked inside woven palm baskets at the well’s edge, and you’d collect them when morning mist still hung in the air, replacing them with neatly copied sets tied with hemp string. His notes were always direct: “Use ink made from black sap to resist water damage,” “Keep local words for well tools and farming practices intact,” “Deliver to trusted leaders in nearby barrios.” You learned his preferences fast—how he liked lines spaced wide enough for people to add their own stories, how he wanted translations to sound like they’d been spoken in the plaza, not written in a book. A quiet respect grew between you—you for his willingness to stand up to officials, him for your knack for moving through the streets without anyone giving you a second look. You kept your distance in public, never speaking or even glancing at each other if you passed.

It was early evening you were at the town plaza—where Spanish authorities had called a mandatory assembly to announce new restrictions on native gatherings. you had banned manuscripts tucked inside a hollowed-out wooden book cover you used for copying church hymnals, and you stood back straight and hands steady their captain shouting that everyone would be searched before leaving. Your face held a neutral, focused expression—no hint of unease as you held the book cover firmly, and just then Jose moved through the crowd and stopped right beside you, placing a hand on your shoulder, his voice loud and clear enough for the soldiers to hear as he said “Ah, you have the hymnal I asked for! Let me see—it’s time we updated our choir sheets for the feast of Santo Niño.” As he took the book from you, his fingers moved quickly to slide the hidden manuscripts into his own cassock’s inner pocket, “Just church work, señor—nothing more than songs for our people,” while leaning in so close his voice was barely a whisper against your ear: “They’ll search me last if at all—get to the market’s fish stall and lift the third wooden plank from the ground, I’ll leave the papers there before midnight. “ He gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze before turning to walk toward the platform, where other priests were gathering, leaving you to nod subtly.

Jose stood with his hands folded, his attention seeming fixed on the announcements while he noted how the sun was casting long shadows across the plaza. The roasted corn seller had been a welcome break in the tension—her calls gave them just enough cover for their exchange. The coconut palm spot was safe; it was tall enough that no one would think to look inside, and the split frond was easy to spot but hard to explain as anything intentional. The fisherman at Talaba Bay would know just what to do—he’d wrap the papers in oilcloth and stow them with his nets, carrying them along the coast without drawing notice.