Episode 17: Three Chairs, Two Settings.

Previously on the Chicken Chronicles... Chester and Henrietta drove south from Vigan through tobacco country. Chester told Henrietta what he had withheld at the frangipani tree — a photograph on a wall in Baguio showing Gregory beside a woman with a burn scar on her left wrist, inscription in grey ink: Para kay G. — pangako niya, hindi ko kayang tuparin. — E. At the end of a barangay road in Ilocos Sur, they reached the address from Estrella's letter: a bahay na bato behind stone walls. On the gate: a fresh sampaguita wreath, stems still wet. Chester pushed the gate open anyway.

Three Chairs, Two Settings

She had the same burn scar.

Henrietta had asked Chester to describe it three times — twice in the car, once at a gas station south of Vigan where she had pulled over specifically to hear it again. A semicircle on the left wrist. The kind that comes from something small and heated pressed against skin and not removed quickly enough.

Mayen was standing in the doorway holding a glass of water she appeared to have forgotten she was holding.

"Come in," she said, in the voice of someone who has been waiting for a thing and is not entirely sure they wanted it to arrive.

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The front room was high-ceilinged and close, the capiz shell windows filtering the midday sun to a warm amber that made everything look older than it was. A wooden bench along one wall. A dining table with three chairs. Two place settings.

Henrietta counted the chairs before she looked at anything else.

Three chairs. Two settings. She filed it.

The photograph on the far wall was larger than the one Chester had described from Baguio. In the Baguio version: Gregory and a woman with a burn scar, two people. This photograph had three. Gregory on the left. The woman — younger, same face — on the right. Between them, a child of maybe eight, head turned slightly from the camera. The child had a burn scar visible on the left wrist.

Henrietta looked at Mayen's wrist.

She did the arithmetic.

Mayen caught her looking. She didn't say anything. She set the forgotten glass on the table and went to the kitchen.

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The old woman was in an armchair by the window, a thin shawl across her lap despite the June heat. She was very small and very still, hands folded in her lap as if they were an object she was keeping from getting lost. She did not look up when they came in.

Mayen returned from the kitchen doorway: "Lola. Nandito na sila."

The old woman looked up. Her eyes went to Chester first — the way everyone's did — then moved to Henrietta and stayed there with a steadiness that felt like appraisal.

"Dalaga kang matalim," she said. You are a sharp young woman.

"You're Estrella," Henrietta said.

The old woman's mouth did something close to a smile. "Sit down."

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Chester sat across from Estrella. Henrietta stayed standing. Old habit: when she needed to think, she needed to be able to move.

Mayen poured coffee. Chester asked about Gregory — when had she last heard from him, what had the letters said, what was the key for. Estrella answered in Tagalog slow enough to follow, stopping to look at her folded hands.

Gregory had written four letters over twenty years. She had written back to all four. After the fourth, he had stopped. She had known what that meant. She had kept the key anyway, because the key had been given to her with instructions and the instructions did not expire just because Gregory had gone silent.

"He said someone would come," she said. "He said the key would tell me they were the right ones." She paused. "I believed him."

"The sampaguita wreath," Henrietta said.

Mayen answered from the kitchen doorway. "Our neighbor, Aling Conching. This morning. She was ninety-one."

Chester let out a breath he had been holding since the gate.

Henrietta filed this separately: the wreath had been misdirection. Not planned, just coincidental. She recalibrated. "You said we are not the first to come."

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Estrella looked at her.

"Two people came before you. In 2012. A man and a woman — they brought bougainvillea. I remember thinking: not sampaguita. A strange choice for a house visit, unless they knew who lived here." She set her hands flat on her lap. "They had a key also. A different key. Same shape. I let them in. Gregory had told me: if they have the key, let them in. They were polite. They asked about the letters. I showed them." A long pause. "When they left, the third letter was gone from the bundle."

The clock on the wall measured five seconds.

"What was in the third letter," Henrietta said.

Estrella looked at her hands.

"A name," she said quietly. "Gregory told me there was one name in that letter that must not reach certain people. He put it there for safekeeping." She did not look up. "I have been asking myself, since 2012, whether I placed it in the right hands or the wrong ones."

Outside, through the capiz windows, a neighbor's rooster objected to something philosophical.

Mayen said, carefully: "Lola. The fourth letter."

Estrella looked at Chester for a moment, then at Henrietta. Then she reached into the folds of the shawl on her lap and produced a sealed envelope, worn at the corners from years of being held and not opened. She set it on the table between them.

On the front, in Gregory's familiar rightward slant: Para sa tamang taong darating.

For the right person who will come.

Henrietta looked at the handwriting. Chester's name was not on it. Neither was hers.

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Next week on the Chicken Chronicles: Chester picks up the envelope. He turns it over. On the back, in a different hand — grey ink, angular cursive — one word: a name.