The Boy on the Balcony

When I was a child, my grandmother was my constant companion. Wherever she went, I went like a shadow, though that word is too cliché for what I felt. I was her little tail, as she’d say with a chuckle. One sweltering afternoon, we took a jeepney to visit her sister, Lola Mina, in a part of town I’d never been to — a place called San Isidro, a tucked-away nook of our city.

The jeepney dropped us off at the mouth of a narrow, unpaved road, lined with ramshackle houses and overgrown weeds. On the corner stood a gnarled, ancient narra tree, its roots buckling the pavement. It was the kind of tree that seemed to watch you, but I was too busy clinging to Lola’s skirt to pay it mind.

We walked down that road until it dead-ended at a small cul-de-sac. There were only three houses: two on either side, and one at the far end, a three-story structure with a veranda on the second floor, overlooking the dead end. Lola Mina’s house was the one on the right, a squat bungalow with a rusted gate. But as we approached, my eyes were drawn to the boy on that veranda.

He was leaning on the railing, his elbows resting on the wooden balustrade, his chin in his hands. He was just a kid, maybe a few years older than me, with dark hair and pale skin. He didn’t move or wave; he just stared, unblinking, at our approach. I remember thinking it odd, but I was too shy to mention it to Lola. I’ll never forget the way his gaze followed us until we disappeared into Lola Mina’s house.

Inside, the house was dim and smelled of old wood and Vicks VapoRub. Lola Mina fussed over me, pinching my cheeks and offering me stale cookies. I sat in a rickety chair, peering out through the dusty window, trying to get another glimpse of the boy. But the angle was wrong, and all I could see was the empty veranda.

As the afternoon wore on, I grew restless. Lola and Lola Mina were deep in gossip, their voices a low hum. I slipped outside and wandered to the back of the house, where a narrow alley ran between Lola Mina’s house and the one next door. At the end of the alley, I could see the house at the dead-end, its veranda now in clear view.

The boy was still there, but now he was pointing at something below. I followed his finger and saw a small, grimy well in the middle of the cul-de-sac, its wooden cover half-rotted. He mimed a drinking motion, then pointed at me, then at the well. A chill ran down my spine.

I backed away, my heart hammering. I ran back inside and tugged at Lola’s sleeve. ‘Lola, there’s a boy on that balcony, pointing at the well,’ I whispered.

Lola and Lola Mina exchanged a look that I didn’t understand. Lola Mina shook her head and said, ‘That boy… he’s been dead for years. Drowned in that well, they say. His family moved away, but he still appears, pointing at the water, asking for a drink.’

I didn’t sleep that night. The image of that pale boy haunted me. The next day, I begged Lola to take me home. She agreed, but as we walked past the dead-end, I couldn’t help but glance at the veranda. He was there, not pointing now, but waving, a slow, deliberate wave that made my blood run cold.

I never returned to Lola Mina’s house again. To this day, whenever I see an old well or a crumbling balcony, I think of the boy on the balcony, still waiting, still thirsty, still pointing to the water that claimed him.