From Sta. Monica yesterday, we still carried both the heaviness and comfort of embraces, tears, and prayers.
Even before the sweat of the previous day had fully dried, our feet were on the move again this time, heading to Talimunduc, San Miguel, and Pitabunan.
These barangays might not be as large as some we'd visited before, but with every step of our house-to-house rounds, I could immediately feel how deep-rooted the support was.
At first, the people were quiet.
But when Mayor Andy approached, smiles spread like water soaking dry earth.
People began emerging, peeking through windows, opening gates, shouting "Mayor's here!"
The roads in Talimunduc were narrow, paved but cracked, signs of the years they'd endured.
Yet in those cracks lay the roots of loyalty, because every home we visited held stories of help received, memories, and conviction.
There was one family across a small sari-sari store who offered us water.
"Mayor, this is really for you. You're not just any visitor," the old man said, handing over the bottle.
Mayor smiled, took a small sip, and thanked him warmly.
At a corner, a young boy held up a piece of cardboard. It wasn't a drawing, but a letter.
In Talimunduc, San Miguel, a light drizzle fell on us, but like on previous days, it didn't slow us down.
As the day wore on, so did the depth of the people's emotions.
At one house by the rice fields, a family shared their favorite snacks like puto, kutsinta, and boiled bananas.
"Mayor, you passed by here before. Back then we had no roof. Now we do. It might not have come directly from you, but because of your programs, the blessings reached us."
There were no garlands, no cameras, only eyes witnessing that in this place, people had not forgotten.
By the time we reached Pitabunan, we knew it would be the last barangay for the day.
But the energy of the people hadn't faded. At every door, someone waited.
There were even students holding balloons, different colors, but mostly red.
A group of women brought a simple speaker, playing Mayor Andy's campaign jingle. They danced a little, chanting, "This is the song of hope!"
—
That night, the Miting de Avance began.
It wasn't a grand stage.
There were no fireworks or confetti. But there was light in the middle of the dark sky, the presence of the people.
In a simple covered court, Mayor Andy spoke. Though his voice was tired, his conviction never wavered.
"This may not be the barangay with the biggest crowd, but it's one of the strongest. You're quiet, but steadfast. You don't shout all the time, but we can hear your hearts.
If we win, it's not just a campaign victory. It's a victory for gratitude."
The people applauded softly.
Some approached for photos.
Children ran to the stage just to see their idol up close.
And toward the end of the program, a group of young people shouted:
"Mayor Andy, we're with you!"
It wasn't broadcast through a speaker.
It wasn't from a script. It came straight from the heart of the town.
On the way home, Mayor sat quietly in the vehicle. I asked if he was tired.
He just smiled and said,
"I won't get tired if these are the people I serve."
Through the windshield, we could still see children peeking from windows, elders waving, and the dim glow of the barangay's streetlights.
The roads weren't brightly lit, but what we carried home was the light of the people's trust.