🌙 Disclaimer

Dreams in Dust is a work of fiction.

All names, characters, places, and events are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real-life events is purely coincidental.

This story contains emotional and mature themes that may not be suitable for all readers. Reader discretion is advised.

The author does not intend to harm, offend, or misrepresent any individual, culture, or community through this work.

Please respect the author's rights — no part of this story may be copied, reposted, or distributed without permission.

© A.N. Quillan. All Rights Reserved.

🖋️ Author's Note

Hi, dreamers. ✨

This is my very first story, so please be kind. I know it's not perfect — you might find a few grammar slips or awkward lines here and there — but every word was written with heart. 💛

Feel free to correct me in a nice and respectful way, because I'm still learning and growing as a writer. Your support, comments, and gentle feedback mean the world to me. 🌷

Dreams in Dust was born from sleepless nights, quiet fears, and the little sparks of hope that refused to die. It's a story about loss, courage, and finding beauty in what's broken — because even when everything fades, dreams remain.

Thank you for being here, for reading, and for giving this dream a chance. 🌙

— A.N. Quillan

The bell above the café door jingled for what felt like the hundredth time, and I didn’t even bother looking up before the next order flashed on the screen. Morning rush—my daily battlefield.

I wiped my hands on my apron, already stained with faint patterns of coffee, and glanced at the line of customers snaking almost to the window. People with laptops tucked under their arms, others clutching reusable cups, some tapping their feet impatiently—all waiting for their fuel for the day.

A part of me wanted to sigh, but I forced my shoulders to relax instead.

“Good morning! Welcome to Brew & Bean!” I called out, voice steady despite the growing pressure.

A man in a grey hoodie stepped forward, already reaching for his wallet.

“Cappuccino. Extra foam,” he said without much expression, focused on his phone more than me.

“Name?” I asked.

“Eli.”

I wrote it down quickly and handed the cup off to the barista station. No time to linger, no time to think—because the next customer, a woman juggling two phones and a handbag, stepped up looking like she was ready to collapse.

“Triple-shot espresso,” she said, barely meeting my eyes.

“Coming right up,” I assured her, even though she was already walking away before I finished.

The morning went by in a blur of noise and movement. Steam hissing from the milk frother. Espresso machines growling like engines. Cups clinking. Voices overlapping. Orders being called out. The rhythmic chaos of a place that never seemed to stop.

This was my life.

At least, for now.

By 11:30 a.m., the rush began to thin out. My back ached, and my fingers were sore from gripping cups and tapping buttons on the POS machine. I stole a few seconds to stretch, only to hear my supervisor call from behind me.

“Auren, break’s over in ten. Please restock the lids before you clock back in.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, masking my exhaustion with a practiced smile.

I moved to the storage cabinet, grabbed a stack of medium-sized lids, and refilled the dispenser near the counter. Every simple task felt heavier than it should, but I kept moving. Because I didn’t have a choice. Because rent didn’t pay itself. Because life didn’t slow down just because I was tired.

After my short break—four minutes actually spent resting, six minutes spent doing side work—I went right back to the counter.

Lunch rush.

Another storm.

The café filled so fast it felt like someone had opened a floodgate. Students hunting for outlets. Office employees ordering for their entire teams. Tourists pointing at the menu like they’d never seen coffee before.

“Macchiato!"

“Order for Liza!”

“Who got the cold brew with oat milk?”

The noise swallowed everything, including my own thoughts. Still, I worked. I smiled when needed. I apologized when someone complained. I ignored the sting in my feet and the dryness in my throat.

Hours passed.

Slowly, painfully, but steadily.

By the time the evening shift arrived, my body felt heavy, as if every bone had doubled in weight. I clocked out, removed my apron, and stuffed it into my bag. It smelled like coffee and sweat—my daily perfume.

The sun was already dipping, painting the streets orange. I stepped outside, the cool breeze brushing against my overheated skin. For a brief moment, I just stood still. Breathing. Letting the world feel quiet again.

Then I began my walk home.

It wasn’t a short walk, but it was cheaper than taking a jeepney every day. The sidewalk was cracked in some parts, uneven in others. Street vendors were packing up their stalls. Kids chased each other near the sari-sari store on the corner. The normal sounds of an ordinary neighborhood.

I passed a row of closed shops, their shutters rusted and tagged with old paint. My steps grew slower the closer I got to home. Not because I was reluctant—just tired. Bone-deep tired.

Finally, I reached the small apartment building where I rented a cramped unit on the third floor. Paint peeling off the walls. Dim hallway lights that flickered when the wind blew too hard. But it was home. For me.

I unlocked the door and stepped inside.

Silence greeted me.

Relief followed.

I dropped my bag onto the chair and kicked off my shoes, letting my sore feet rest on the cold floor tiles. I headed straight to the sink, washed my hands, then splashed water on my face—washing away the smell of brewed coffee, the stress of impatient customers, and the weight of the day.

For a few seconds, I held onto the edge of the sink, eyes closed, breathing slowly. My whole body begged for rest, but giving in wasn’t an option.

I turned on the dim ceiling light—barely bright enough to cover the whole room—and made my way to the tiny kitchen. Calling it a “kitchen” was generous; it was really just a single counter, a small stove, and shelves I’d reinforced with tape and hope.

I grabbed a pan and set it on the stove. Rice from yesterday. I reheated it while sautéing garlic in a small amount of oil—just enough to bring out the smell but not enough to count as waste. Then I added scrambled eggs. Simple, filling, cheap.

My dinner.

The garlic crackled in the pan, releasing a comforting aroma that filled the small unit. It reminded me of simpler days—days before everything became a cycle of shifts, worries, and sleepless nights.

Once the food was done, I placed it on a chipped plate and sat at the small table where my stack of unopened mail waited. Bills, reminders, payment notices—things I didn’t have the energy to face earlier. But ignoring them didn’t stop reality.

I picked up the first envelope with trembling fingers.

St. Paul’s Memorial Hospital – Billing Department

My stomach tensed. I opened it slowly, as if tearing the paper too fast might make the numbers inside worse.

"Outstanding Balance: ₱62,450

Next due date: Friday"

I swallowed hard. There were two more pages—breakdowns of the chemotherapy sessions, medications, and confinement. My younger brother, Aisen, had been in the hospital for three years now.

Three years of fighting.

Three years of hoping.

Three years of expenses climbing faster than I could earn.

I placed the bills on the table and rubbed the bridge of my nose. The quiet room suddenly felt too heavy, too tight.

“Just a little more,” I whispered to myself. “Just hold on a little more.”

I took another bite of my reheated garlic rice and eggs, though it tasted like cardboard now. Not because of the food—but because of the reality I had to swallow alongside it.

After finishing the plate, I washed the dishes quickly, then checked the time on my phone.

6:42 PM.

My shift at the hotel resto-bar started at 8:00. I had less than an hour to prepare if I wanted to make it on time.

I opened the closet—really just a small cabinet with sliding doors—and pulled out the outfit I used for singing gigs. A simple black dress, modest but clean. Fitted enough to look presentable under the dim stage lights, loose enough so I wouldn’t struggle to breathe between songs.

I laid it on the bed, then sat down to rest my feet for a moment. The silence wrapped around me again. Too quiet. Too honest.

I whispered under my breath, “You’re doing this for Aisen. Keep going.”

After a moment, I stood up again, tied my hair into a neat low ponytail, and touched up the faint makeup left on my face from the morning shift. I added a hint of powder and a soft tint to my lips—not to impress anyone, but because the hotel required singers to look “presentable.”

I changed into the black dress carefully, smoothing the wrinkles as best as I could. Then I grabbed my bag—now smelling faintly of coffee and cheap fabric softener—and checked its contents:

Notebook with song lists.

Two extra masks.

A bottle of water.

My worn-out wallet.

I added the hospital bill on top, folding it once and slipping it inside. A reminder of why I couldn’t skip even a single night.

Before stepping out, I turned off the lights and gave the room one last glance. Small. Cramped. Imperfect.

But it was my anchor.

My starting point.

The place I left every day to fight for a future that still felt so far away.

I locked the door behind me and took a deep breath.

Time for job number two.

Another part of the life I didn’t choose—but was determined to survive.

To Be Continue...

The soft yellow lights of the hotel restobar glowed against the polished wood flooring as I stepped onto the small backstage area. Guests were already settling into their seats—some sipping wine, some checking phones, others talking in low, polite conversations typical of high-end places.

I set my song folder on a stool and was adjusting the microphone height when a familiar voice spoke behind me.

“You look like you sprinted here from another universe.”

I turned.

Arzhel.

Tall, guitar strap slung over his shoulder, his hair tied back the way he always did when he performed. He raised an eyebrow at me, half teasing, half concerned.

“I came from the café,” I said, placing the mic down carefully. “Of course I’m tired.”

He clicked his tongue. “Long day?”

“Long week,” I corrected.

He didn’t push further—he never did—but his eyes softened in that quiet, understanding way he had even back in high school. He had been the first to teach me how to harmonize, the one who convinced me to try joining the choir, and later…the one who vouched for me when the restobar needed a new singer.

He plucked a few test notes on his guitar, the warm tone filling the small space. “We’re starting with the jazz set, right?”

“Yeah,” I said, flipping to the first page. “Slow tempo. Manager’s request.”

“Got it,” he replied, adjusting his tuner.

He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Did you… get the bills again?”

I froze for half a second.

Of course he knew.

He always knew.

“Yes,” I said quietly. “He’s on his fourth cycle. There’s another round of tests scheduled next week.”

Arzhel exhaled, not dramatically—just enough to show he was worried too.

“You’re doing everything you can, Auren. You know that, right?”

“**I have to,” I replied, my voice firmer than I felt. “It’s just the two of us.”**

He nodded once. “I know you’ll both find a way to get through it—together.”

It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t pity.

Just pure encouragement.

Something steady to hold onto.

A staff member waved at us from the bar.

“Sound check done. You’re up.”

Arzhel gave me a small tap on the shoulder. “Let’s make this crowd feel something.”

We stepped onto the stage.

The soft hum of conversations faded as the lights dimmed over the audience. Arzhel played the opening chords—smooth, steady, the kind of sound that settled into your bones. I took a breath, letting the familiar comfort of music wash over the exhaustion still clinging to me.

I sang.

The first song flowed easily, then the second. Leandro followed every shift in my voice, every subtle change in rhythm, like he always had. Years of singing together had built an unspoken understanding between us—he adjusted when I needed more support, lightened when I needed space.

During the short break between sets, we stepped behind the curtain again.

Arzhel handed me a bottle of water. “Your high notes sound stronger tonight.”

“Really?” I asked, surprised.

“Yeah,” he said, leaning his guitar against a chair. “Which is impressive considering you came from a double shift and probably haven’t eaten anything but reheated fried rice.”

I sighed. “You’re not wrong.”

“Then after the third set, I’m buying you dinner,” he said simply.

I shook my head. “Arz—”

“It’s food, Auren. Not charity.”

He said it in a flat tone, leaving no room for argument.

Typical.

Stubborn.

But dependable.

We went back for the second set—acoustic versions of popular songs. The atmosphere grew livelier as guests finished their meals, some clapping along softly.

Halfway through the third song, I saw Arzhel glance at me—just a split second, making sure I was still okay.

I was tired.

But singing with him made the exhaustion easier.

When the final set ended close to midnight, the applause was warm but polite—hotel applause, appreciative but refined. We bowed, stepped offstage, and finally headed to the employee lounge.

Arzhel stretched his arms above his head. “Another night survived.”

“Barely,” I joked, though my voice cracked with fatigue.

He grabbed his backpack, slinging it over one shoulder. “Come on. There’s a 24-hour diner two blocks away. You need a meal before you pass out on the sidewalk.”

I gathered my things—song lists, mic cover, ID—and sighed. “Fine. But only if we split the bill.”

“Sure,” he said, but his grin told me he had zero plans of letting me pay.

We walked out of the hotel past midnight, the city quiet, streetlights glowing gently against the pavement. My legs ached. My voice felt raw. My mind buzzed with worry about tomorrow, about Aisen, about the bills stacked on my table.

But beside me, Arzhel strummed lightly on the neck of his guitar as he walked, creating a soft rhythm only we could hear.

The streets were quieter than usual as we walked toward the diner. The neon sign buzzed faintly above the entrance—“Daisy’s 24/7”—its red letters flickering like they were barely holding on, much like me.

Inside, the air smelled of butter, coffee, and something fried. A middle aged waitress glanced up from wiping the counter and nodded, recognizing Arzhel  immediately she gave us a tired smile the kind you only learn after years of night shifts.

“You again,” she said, placing menus on a booth. “Long night?”

“Always,” Arzhel replied.

We slid into the farthest corner booth, the cracked red leather seats squeaking under our weight. I rubbed my hands together to shake off the cold, while Arzhel placed his guitar beside him like it was part of his body.

He picked up the laminated menu and pushed one toward me. “Order something real. Not sandwich and coffee. Not another fried rice and eggs. Real food.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You talk like you’re my father.”

“Someone has to.”

I rolled my eyes but didn’t argue. I scanned the menu—mostly breakfast food, sandwiches, and rice meals. My stomach clenched when I saw the prices. Even here, the numbers looked heavy.

Arzhel must’ve noticed my hesitation because he leaned forward, voice low and firm.

“Auren. Order what you want.”

My jaw tightened. “I don’t want you—”

“I said order,” he cut in gently. “Let me do this.”

Eventually, I nodded. “Fine.”

A waitress came over, pen ready.

“I’ll have the chicken broth rice meal,” I said quietly.

“And I’ll get the same,” Arzhel added. “Plus two iced teas.”

When she walked away, I finally relaxed into the booth.

“You don’t have to keep looking out for me,” I said, staring at the table. “I don’t want to depend on anyone.”

“You’re not depending on me,” he replied. “You’re surviving. There’s a difference.”

I didn’t argue—mostly because he was right. Instead, I rested my arms on the table. “How much is your part-time pay again?”

His eyes flicked to mine. “Don’t worry about me.”

“I’m not worrying,” I said. “I just don’t want you using your salary to feed me.”

“I’m feeding you because you need it, not because I’m rich. beside I'm also hungry.”

I let out a quiet breath. Sometimes talking to him felt like talking to a wall—solid, immovable, and annoyingly supportive.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The diner was quiet except for the clatter of dishes and the low hum of the old refrigerator behind the counter.

When our food arrived, we ate in comfortable silence. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until the first bite. The warm broth and rice, the soft chicken—the simplicity of it made my chest tighten unexpectedly.

“This is good,” I admitted.

“Told you,” he said, sipping his iced tea. “And next time, pick something with more protein. You’re burning yourself out.”

I almost laughed. “Next time? Planning a weekly dinner intervention?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

I shook my head, but a small smile escaped me. Just for a second.

After we finished eating, Arzhel stood up and stretched.

“I’ll take you home.”

“You really don’t have to—”

“Don’t argue. It’s late.”

We left the diner and walked side by side through the empty street until we reached the jeepney stop. The streetlights cast a soft glow on the pavement, stretching our shadows far behind us.

When we reached the jeepney stop, he suddenly spoke.

“Do you want me to come with you tomorrow?” he asked, adjusting the strap of his guitar case like he needed something to do with his hands.

“Huh?” I blinked at him, confused, and he turned fully toward me.

“Tomorrow—when you visit Aisen. You’re going, right?” he said gently.

I nodded. “I’ll be fine.”

He looked at me for a moment longer than necessary, eyes tracing my face like he was searching for cracks I was hiding. There it was again—the small crease between his brows. His tell. The one that always showed up when he was trying to pretend he wasn’t worried.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “Just… message me when you get there.”

“I will.”

The jeepney pulled up, brakes hissing. We climbed in and sat across from each other, our knees almost touching. We didn’t talk, didn’t need to. The silence between us was familiar, comfortable. After fifteen minutes, we got off at the next stop and walked together toward my apartment.

Side by side. No words. Just the soft rhythm of our steps echoing down the empty street. He made sure I got home safe—just like he always had since high school.

At my door, I turned to him. “Thank you. For dinner. For tonight. For… everything.”

He shrugged like it meant nothing, when I knew it meant everything. “Text me when you wake up. And if you need anything, just—”

“I know.” I gave him a small smile.

“I’ll see you tomorrow at the restobar.”

He nodded once, like he didn’t trust himself to say more, then turned away. His guitar case swayed lightly with each step as he walked down the hallway.

I slipped inside, locked the door, and let the exhaustion—everything I’d been holding in—finally pull me down.

To Be Continue...