The moment Registry stepped off the ferry at Larena Port, his internal system glitched.
The air was thick with the scent of sea salt and burning wood. Siquijor was historically called Isla del Fuego (Island of Fire) by the Spaniards, named after the eerie glow of millions of fireflies swarming the molave trees.
To Registry’s horror, his digital watch froze. His smartphone screen pixelated into a faint, glowing spiral and turned off.
“Excuse me,” Registry called out to a tricycle driver leaning against a brightly painted vehicle. “My localized time stamp has ceased functioning. What is the official time?”
The driver, a cheerful man named Nong Pedro, laughed, the sound warm and deep. “Time? Sir, here we eat when we are hungry, sleep when it’s dark, and drink tuba (coconut wine) when the sun goes down. Jump in, I take you to your resort.”
Registry felt a strange sensation in his chest—a loosening of a knot he didn’t know was there.