The Day I saw a Ghost
The Day I Saw a Ghost The air hung heavy with the scent of history, the kind that clings to old stone walls and whispers stories of forgotten lives. It was a sweltering summer day, the kind that makes the city feel like a furnace, but inside the dungeon, a cool breeze whispered through the cracked stone walls. We were there as part of a history class requirement, a group of college students venturing into the bowels of a forgotten past. The dungeon, located near the Pasig River,in Intramuros Manila was a labyrinth of dark, damp cells, each one a silent testament to the harsh realities of a bygone era. We were told it was the cell of Jose Rizal, the national hero of the Philippines, and the weight of history pressed down on us as we stepped inside. The cell itself was small, perhaps 20 square meters, with a single, stone stairway that let in a sliver of light. The air was cool and damp, a stark contrast to the oppressive heat outside. As we explored, I ran my hand alon