At Si Alma: Si Rose

Rose closed her eyes. A single tear fell. “And I’ll learn to burn a little. Just enough to live.”

“Rose?” Alma’s voice dropped to a whisper she rarely used. “What are you doing?” SI ROSE AT SI ALMA

Rose, washing a vase in the sink, didn’t turn around. “You can’t save everyone by breaking yourself.” Rose closed her eyes

Alma knelt. She didn’t take the scissors. She took Rose’s hands instead. Cold. Trembling. Just enough to live

Their mother used to say, “Si Rose ay ugat, si Alma ay apoy.” Rose is the root. Alma is the fire.

One afternoon, Alma found Rose sitting on the bathroom floor, staring at a pair of scissors.

Alma was the youngest. She was a cracked bell on a Sunday morning—loud, beautiful, and impossible to ignore. She danced in a cramped studio above a bakery, teaching kids who couldn’t afford lessons. Her laugh was a thunderclap. Her hair was always dyed a different shade of red. She collected people like stray cats, and they followed her into trouble without question.