If the first grand motorcade had already filled the streets, this second one wasn't just packed, it felt like we were floating on a sea of people.
Arms moved like waves, reaching out together for Mayor Andy.
They didn't just cheer him, they lifted him, hugged him, confessed old stories and prayers they'd been holding in their hearts for so long.
There was an old woman standing quietly at the side.
She didn't try to scream or run.
She held a rosary clenched in her palm, and when he got close, she handed it to Mayor.
No words.
No drama.
But in that moment, something squeezed tight in my chest.
That's what real faith looks like when it's not spoken, but surrendered completely.
At the next barangay, it was like a concert.
Teenagers held lightsticks like K-pop fans eager to see their bias.
But instead of shouting "oppa," they yelled "Mayor Andy!"
We were greeted with the campaign jingle remixed by local youth, complete with choreography.
One mother ran up carrying food.
"My grandma made this! It's for you, Mayor!"
Mayor was drenched in sweat, but he smiled anyway.
He held up the banana cue like a trophy.
"This is the most special gift I've ever received," he said.
The crowd laughed, but we all knew, it wasn't a joke.
It was true.
Amid the crowd, one man pushed forward, holding an old basketball.
He'd clearly been carrying it for a while, and he immediately handed it to Mayor.
"Mayor," he said as he offered the ball, "I've been asking you to sign this since 2019.
Every time i see you, i ask for your signature. I never replaced it, never got a new one. Because every signature has a story in my heart."
We saw it covered in writing, signatures from past encounters.
And now, another small space was filled as Mayor carefully signed a little spot on the white leather.
"This isn't just a ball," the man whispered. "It's my memory of believing in you even when you weren't running. And now that you've come back."
Mayor didn't say much.
No speech.
No platform.
But his smile was deep.
You could tell he'd never forget that ball or the man who'd carried it for five years waiting to see him again.
As the motorcade went on, the crowds on the streets only grew.
People brought food, flowers, chocolate, garlands, green mangoes, bananas, drinks, and more.
You wouldn't hear a single campaign promise shouted.
Not one platform recited.
But the tears, the hugs, the outstretched arms still raised despite exhaustion, those were more powerful than any promise made in words.
Mothers with woven market bags weren't going to the market, they were handing Mayor whatever they had: kakanin, buko juice, boiled sweet potatoes, candy, sometimes even a simple "thank you" scribbled on a torn notebook page.
Three elderly women in a row handed him food, boiled bananas, puto, hard-boiled eggs.
A group of young people blocked the road, shouting in unison while holding up a sign:
"The fight isn't over yet."
They hugged Mayor like they never wanted to let him go.
The night deepened.
But the people didn't go to sleep.
One family even brought monoblock chairs to the roadside.
"We'll just sit here to wait. We're fine even if it's past midnight. Losing sleep is worth it. It's Mayor, after all."
And even though we could barely move from exhaustion ourselves, we couldn't deny it: in every barangay, we felt renewed strength.
Like someone was pouring coffee into our hearts every time a child cried, or an old person hugged tightly, or a handwritten letter still smelling of notebook paper was handed over.
No campaign team has stories like these.
No script can replace the laughter of children or the mothers clutching Mayor's hand like they were holding onto the future itself.
Finally, when the convoy stopped for good, Mayor faced the sea of faces in front of him, sweaty, sleepless, but smiling.
"Thank you so much. I can't greet all of you individually, but I hope you feel this: you're the reason we didn't stop even though it's the middle of the night."
"This isn't just a motorcade. It's a journey with you. And at every road, every corner, every hand reaching out to give, I know... you love me. And I love you too."
The crowd cried. And from somewhere in the middle, a child shouted:
"BRING BACK THE RED!"
And yes, that night, in the glow of so many eyes, in the white smoke from food stalls, in the laughter and sobs, in the hugs and the weariness, there was a love that couldn't be forced.
Couldn't be bought.
A love that stayed up all night.
A town that refused to sleep.
Because the person they had believed in for so long had finally come back.