I had the option to stay at my boyfriend's house in Quezon City when my parents decided to renovate our house in Cavite, so I was in awe of our house's transformation when I returned. All rooms were more spacious, and each room upstairs had a balcony. There were little remnants of our old house, except for the appliances we left. But what I was happiest about was the newest addition to our home—my own work area. It was located on the first floor, just left of the stairs. My favorite part of the room was the stage-like area that carried our two-seater sofa, which would serve as my vlog recording location. My parents said it was a surprise because I always complained about noises and other interruptions whenever I record my vlogs. Now not only did I have a place to work, but I also had a room for my hobby.

I was so excited that I set up my stuff on the day I returned—my computer and other related devices on the table, my ring light by the wall, my books on the shelf. I turned on the air conditioner, placed the camera in front of me, sat on the sofa, and then started vlogging about how my parents surprised me with my new "office" during the renovation and how thrilled I was. It took me an hour before I finished. But since I was already exhausted, I decided to rest and postpone the editing of the video past midnight—the time I was most active.

Excited to edit my vlog that evening, I ran to the work area—which everyone in the house called it my office—and opened the computer and the video editor. I smiled as the video played, but my grin slowly faded when my speakers released a fuzzy static noise.

Then, it escalated to whispers. A child's voice. I'm in here. Find me.

I was staring at the device, thinking it was just some interference, when it suddenly stopped. I thought my speakers were just improperly connected or the wires were just tangled, but the moment I touched it, I heard a clear word—Help.

Frightened, I stood. But just as I was about to leave the entire room, my monitor shut down. Its screen reflected whatever was in front of it, which included my trembling facade . . . and a little boy behind me.

His lips mouthed something I could not decipher, his fingers pointing at the sofa.

I left the room screaming and crying, which woke up everyone in the house. I explained what happened to my parents as calmly as I could, but my condition worsened that they were forced to bring me to the nearest hospital. I slept in the emergency room for the rest of the night, and then inside my room when we returned home.

When I woke up the next morning, I heard unfamiliar voices. I got up and saw the police interviewing my parents and siblings. A policewoman also asked me questions, but I could only share what happened yesterday. She listed it down and patted my head, saying, "Pray for the little boy."

I noticed that my desk table and gadgets were in the kitchen, like they were temporarily placed there. Confused, I asked my parents what happened. They told me to go to my work area to find out. There, I saw the sofa on the floor, the cemented platform demolished.

Putting the puzzle pieces together, I could only cover my mouth with my hand in shock. Apparently, one of the workers tried to bury a child's body in the cement. Although we would only find out what truly happened in the trial, my parents were upset that our house became an accomplice to a crime; we all were. What bothered me most was, however, was the comfort and authority I felt as I stepped on the platform, not knowing what was underneath.