The Unseen Cold

It was a Tuesday evening in the small town of San Isidro, where the heat of the day clung to every surface like a second skin. I sat alone at the dinner table, a plate of adobo and rice sweating in the still air. The only sound was the ticking of the wall clock, its hands crawling toward eight. My mother, Liza, was working her usual overtime at the garment factory, trying to make ends meet after my father’s passing. The house felt emptier than ever, the silence punctuated by the occasional creak of the old wooden floorboards.

As I lifted a piece of chicken to my mouth, I felt a sudden, sharp cold wrap around my ankles, as if someone had just opened a freezer door onto my legs. The sensation was brief but unmistakable, a stark contrast to the oppressive warmth of the room. I paused, fork hovering mid-air. The dining room had no windows, only the doorway to the kitchen and the hallway leading to the living room. Both were empty. I dismissed it as a draft from the faulty aircon unit in the hallway, though I knew it had been broken for weeks.

I continued eating, but the cold lingered in my mind. It was strange, but I felt no fear, only a lingering curiosity. My father, Ramon, had been gone for seven years now, taken by a sudden stroke at the age of forty-three. I was only twelve when he died, and now at nineteen, I still missed his presence, his laughter, his firm but gentle guidance. Sometimes, I thought I could feel him in the house, a ghost of his memory rather than a spectral figure.

After dinner, I cleared my plate and walked to the living room to watch a bit of TV before bed. The air was still, the only light coming from the flickering screen. I sat on the old sofa, the one my father used to claim after a long day, and leaned back. That’s when I felt the cold again, this time on my shoulder, as if a hand was resting there briefly. I turned sharply, expecting to see someone, but there was no one. The room was empty, the curtains still. My heart began to race, but the feeling was not of fear but of recognition.

I decided to retire to my room, hoping to shake off the strange sensations. My room was at the end of the hallway, opposite my mother’s and grandmother’s. As I walked, the hallway felt unusually cool, the air thick with a presence I couldn’t quite place. I closed my door and sat on my bed, the lumpy mattress sagging in the middle. The clock on my nightstand read 9:47 p.m. I tried to read a book, but my mind kept wandering to the cold spots.

A sudden noise from the kitchen made me freeze—the sound of a glass being set down on the counter, a familiar, distinct ‘clink’ that my father used to make when he drank his evening glass of water. I held my breath, waiting. The house was silent again. I crept to the kitchen, heart pounding, but found nothing out of place. The glass I had used earlier was still in the sink, and the counter was empty.

I returned to my room, now feeling a flicker of unease. I lay down, but sleep was elusive. Just as I was drifting off, I felt a gentle pressure on my forehead, like a kiss, and a soft, cold breeze whispered across my ear, carrying the faint scent of tobacco and aftershave—my father’s scent. My eyes shot open, and in the dim moonlight, I saw a vague, shimmering outline at the foot of my bed, taking the shape of a man. He seemed to nod at me, and then he faded away.

The rest of the night passed uneventfully, but I knew something profound had happened. The next morning, I found a small, folded paper on my pillow, written in my father’s handwriting: ‘I’ll always be watching over you, anak.’ With tears in my eyes, I realized that the cold I had felt was not a draft, but his presence, reaching out from beyond to give me comfort. From that night on, I never felt alone, and the cold spots in the house became a source of warmth in my heart.