I sat on the uneven floor of our house—what was left of it, anyway—and stared at the melted candle stub in front of me. The wax pooled in a dish I had salvaged from the wreckage. Around me, the air was heavy with smelling salt and decay, the remnants of Super Typhoon Yolanda's fury lingering even weeks after it had passed. Barangay Cogon, Palo, Leyte was a ghost town, its streets littered with splintered wood, twisted metal, and memories that felt too heavy to carry.

But somehow, we were still here. Still breathing.

I glanced at my mother as she stirred a pot of watery soup. The broth was thin enough to fill our bellies, but she stirred with the rhythm that promised a feast. My younger brother, Peter, sat near the doorway, his small hands working to weave palm fronds into something that resembled a star. A parol, he called it. A Christmas lantern, even if it wouldn't light up.

It had been over a month since the storm stripped us of everything—our home, our neighbors, the sea itself. That sea, once so serene, had roared like a demon, swallowing entire families in its wake. I still woke up in the middle of the night, hearing its phantom howl, feeling the cold water dragging me back into that moment when survival was uncertain.

Yet here we were, in the ruins of Barangay Cogon, trying to piece together something resembling Christmas.

The soldiers patrolled outside, their boots crunching against debris. Curfew had been strict since martial law was declared. By six o'clock, we had to retreat into whatever shelter we could claim. The prisoners who had escaped during the chaos were still out there, a shadowy threat that kept us on edge. But as I sat with my family, the flickering candle between us, I tried to push the fear aside.

"Maria," my mother whispered, her voice cutting through my thoughts. "Hand me the salt."

I passed her the small pouch we'd bartered for with our last can of sardines. Salt was precious now, more valuable than any of us had imagined before Yolanda. Every grain seemed to carry the weight of survival.

"Do you think it's enough?" Peter asked, holding up his parol. It was lopsided, its edges frayed, but his face glowed with pride. He was only nine, too young to understand the full scope of what we had lost, but old enough to sense the desperation that clung to us.

"It's perfect," I said, ruffling his hair. "We'll hang it by the doorway tomorrow."

The days blurred together in a rhythm of scarcity. We scavenged during the daylight hours, hunting for food, wood, and anything that could be useful. Nights were harder, filled with whispers of danger and the ghosts of those we had lost. Most of our neighbors had fled, seeking refuge in evacuation centers or distant relatives' homes. Only a handful of us remained—barely twenty souls who had nowhere else to go or who refused to leave the land their families had lived on for generations.

I often wondered if we had made the right choice staying here. Every gust of wind made my heart race, every creak of wood felt like a warning. But leaving? That felt like abandoning something sacred, as though walking away would sever our connection to everything we had ever known.

On the night before Christmas, the air in Cogon felt heavier than usual. The sky was moonless, darkness pressing down on us. Inside our house, we gathered with the other families who had stayed behind. It was dangerous, perhaps even reckless, to break curfew like this, but the need for togetherness outweighed the fear. Someone had found a small radio, and though its batteries were nearly dead, it crackled with faint carols.

I sat beside my best friend, Aling Teresa, a woman whose laughter had once filled the barangay with life. She held a bundle of clothes that belonged to her son, who had been swept away by the typhoon. She didn't cry, though I could see the storm still raging in her eyes.

"Maria," she said quietly, "why do you think we're still here? After all this?"

I didn't know how to answer her. The question had circled in my mind so many times, a tug-of-war between hope and despair. Why were we spared when so many weren't? Why did the storm take our neighbors, but not us? I had no answers, only the ache of survival.

We placed our makeshift parol by the doorway, its fragile frame trembling in the night breeze. Peter beamed as though he had hung the brightest star in the sky. The other families clapped, their smiles thin but genuine. Someone produced a small tin of biscuits, another a half-empty bottle of soda. It wasn't much, but at that moment, it felt like a banquet.

The radio sputtered to life again, and the faint strains of Silent Night filled the air. I closed my eyes and let the melody wash over me, imagining a world where the typhoon hadn't come, where our barangay still stood tall and whole. I saw the church, its steeple rising against the horizon, and the streets lined with children playing. I saw my neighbors smiling, their voices mingling in the warm air.

But when I opened my eyes, I was back in the ruins, the shadows of the typhoon all around me.

"Let's pray," my mother said, her voice steady despite the tremble in her hands. We bowed our heads, the silence broken only by the distant hum of the soldiers' patrol. I prayed for the souls we had lost, for the families who had left, and for the strength to keep going.

When the prayer ended, there was a moment of stillness, a fragile peace that felt like a gift. Then, slowly, we began to sing. The words to O Come, All Ye Faithful rose hesitantly at first, but as more voices joined in, the melody grew strong. It carried through the broken walls and into the night, a defiance against the despair that had threatened to consume us.

For the first time in weeks, I felt something shift inside me. It wasn't joy, exactly, but it was close. A flicker of warmth, a reminder that even in the darkest times, we could still find light.

Weeks later, when the relief teams arrived, I stood at the edge of the barangay, waiting to greet them. The truck rumbled down the battered road, its bright colors a stark contrast to the grayness of our surroundings. As it pulled to a stop, I saw a familiar face step out—my friend Ana, who had left for Manila years ago. Her eyes widened as she took in the surrounding devastation.

"Maria," she said, her voice trembling, "how can you still smile after everything that's happened?"

Her question caught me off guard, but I found myself smiling, anyway. It wasn't forced or hollow. It was real, born of something deeper than I could explain.

"I can still smile," I said, "because I'm grateful to God for being here and for my entire family still being alive. Others weren't as lucky."

Her eyes filled with tears, and I took her hand. At that moment, I realized that gratitude wasn't just a feeling. It was a choice, a defiance against the storms of life. And as long as I could hold on to that, I knew we would find our way through.