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Chapter 5 - Episode 4

In Barangay San Isidro, one night became a history that would never fade.

The entire basketball court was packed to the brim.

Seats were no longer enough—some stood at the edges, others sat on the concrete floor, while most stayed outside the gates, peeking, listening, waiting.

But despite the crowding, despite the heat, despite the long hours—no one complained.

They all had one purpose: to catch a glimpse of Mayor Andy David Lacson.

And when he finally arrived, a roar erupted.

It wasn't just applause.

It was a shout pouring out everything—joy, anticipation, belief, and a pain long held tight in their chests.

From mothers, youth, elders, even from men who rarely spoke…

they all shouted together:

"ANDY! ANDY! ANDY!"

This was an echo of trust.

A cry from hearts that never let go.

No clap went without a shout.

No flag was left unwaved.

No eyes failed to seek him in the sea of red.

But Mayor Andy, as always, did not immediately step onto the stage.

He did not walk to be seen—he walked to feel.

One by one, he approached the people.

He shook hands, embraced them, listened.

Ignoring sweat, heat, and time.

For him, every hand he touched was not just a vote—

it was a heart.

Some hugged him tightly—carrying exhaustion, pain, and anger at a world that didn't hear them, now eased because he was there.

Some kissed him as if he were a long-lost child.

Some wept silently in his arms, saying nothing—yet you could feel the message:

"Thank you, Mayor. Thank God you came back."

An old woman's voice trembled as she said,

"Mayor… I didn't know you before. But now… you feel like family."

A student approached, tears in her eyes:

"Mayor… I hope the TSU will push through. I just want to study for free."

Beside me, a father's voice spoke softly:

"Thank you, Mayor. You're not just someone we see on Facebook… you're here, in our lives."

Mayor Andy was silent as he moved through the crowd.

No lengthy speech. No script.

Because his message wasn't spoken—it was felt.

When he finally reached the stage, he paused, staring at the crowd, as if memorizing every face.

As he stepped up, the entire court fell silent.

No emcee called for attention.

None was needed.

Respect was freely given.

In a voice that never needed to be raised to be heard, he spoke:

"You loved me not for looks, not for wealth, nor for promises I could make.

You loved me because we proved something true—

that politics can still have heart.

That service can still be without strings attached."

"I am not perfect. But I have tried to be real.

And if there is any greater reward for my struggles, it is you—

the trust you have given that I could never repay."

At that last line, San Isidro seemed to become one voice:

"We love you, Mayor!"

"We will never leave you!"

"You are the true servant of the people!"

And I—who had already cried many times during this campaign—could no longer hold back.

I cried quietly.

Because that night, it wasn't just a caucus.

It was a gathering of hearts that cannot forget true love.

And as i watched Mayor Andy stand in the middle of the stage, bathed in the red light of trust, I thought only this:

In San Isidro, nothing is higher than a person who knows how to bow down to listen.

And in every hand he held, a promise was left behind:

"You did not make a mistake in loving me."

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