The convoy left the river behind and followed a narrow provincial road that cut through farmland. The mountains flanked both sides, tall and quiet, while the sun filtered through drifting clouds. The hydro site assessnt was finished for the morning, but Timothy was not ready to leave yet. Sothing about the surrounding towns pulled at his attention.
"Sir," Hana said from the passenger seat, "the municipal hall expects us by eleven. We have ti, but not much."
"We will get there," Timothy said. "I want to see the schools in this area."
Hana lowered her notebook slightly. "The schools?"
"Yes," Timothy said. "If we are building a power source for this province, we should understand the people it will serve. That starts with their children."
The driver glanced at them through the mirror. "There is a public elentary school two kiloters ahead, sir. It is beside the barangay center."
"Take us there," Timothy said.
The convoy slowed as they approached a small cluster of houses. Laundry hung across fences. Dogs wandered freely. A basketball court sat abandoned beside a row of coconut trees. Further in, tucked behind a rusted gate, stood the school.
The gate sagged slightly. The paint had peeled off long ago, leaving only faint traces of green beneath layers of rust. A faded signboard read: San Isidro Elentary School.
The driver stopped near the entrance. Timothy stepped out first.
The school grounds were quiet. A rooster crowed sowhere behind the classrooms. The wind carried dust across the cracked cent walkway. Paint peeled from walls. Windows were propped open with sticks because the hinges no longer held.
Hana ca up beside him. "This place looks underfunded."
"It looks abandoned," Timothy said.
He walked through the gate. No guard. No staff. Only children inside the rooms, voices drifting faintly through broken windows.
A woman in a worn blouse stepped out of one classroom when she noticed the visitors. She wiped chalk dust from her hands and approached with a cautious smile.
"Good morning," she said. "Are you here from the division office?"
"No," Timothy said. "We are visiting. We would like to look around, if that is allowed."
The teacher studied him for a mont. His clothes, posture, and the SUVs outside suggested soone far removed from the usual visitors. Still, she nodded.
"You may look, sir. I will guide you."
Timothy followed her into the first classroom. The sll of old wood and chalk hung in the air. The room held more children than it should have. At least forty students shared mismatched chairs. So chairs were cracked. So had no backrests. A few children sat on overturned plastic crates.
The blackboard was a sheet of plywood painted black, edges warped from humidity. The real chalkboard had broken years ago.
A ceiling fan hung lopsided above them, blades coated in dust. It did not turn. There was no electricity that morning.
At the back of the room, a girl balanced her notebook on her knees because her desk slanted too far to write properly.
Timothy walked down the aisle. The children grew quiet. Their eyes followed him, curious and confused.
Hana looked around with a restrained expression. She wrote notes quickly, as if the act helped her process what she saw.
The teacher spoke softly. "We are short on chairs. The school requested replacents three years ago, but nothing arrived. The electricity is unstable. So days we have power. So days we do not."
"What about textbooks?" Timothy asked.
"We have a few," she said. "But many share. So children take photos of pages using old phones so they can study at ho."
Timothy looked at the shelves near the window. They sagged under piles of old paper. Rain had seeped in from broken roofing, staining the textbooks.
They stepped outside and moved to another building. The walkway was covered, but parts of the roof had holes that let sunlight through like scattered stars. During the rainy season, the walkway flooded.
The next classroom was worse. The wall behind the teacher’s desk had a crack running from ceiling to floor. One entire corner was patched with plywood.
"Is this safe?" Timothy asked.
The teacher hesitated. "We pray that it holds."
Timothy stepped closer to examine the crack. He placed his hand near it without touching. The structure felt tired. Overburdened. One strong storm could finish it.
They visited the teachers’ lounge, although it was hardly a lounge. There were two plastic tables, three chairs, and stacks of paperwork stored in cardboard boxes. A thin curtain separated it from the principal’s corner office, which was barely large enough to fit a desk.
"How many teachers do you have?" Timothy asked.
"Seven," she said. "For almost three hundred students."
"Seven," he repeated slowly.
"Yes, sir."
They exited the room. Outside, a boy ran past them carrying a bucket of water. The teacher called after him.
"The toilets are not working again?" she asked.
The boy nodded. "No water, Ma’am."
He kept running.
Timothy watched him disappear behind one of the buildings.
A school without water. Without electricity. Without chairs. Without textbooks. Without funding.
He turned toward Hana. She held her notebook close to her chest, unable to hide the frustration on her face.
"This is happening in many places," she said quietly.
"I know," Timothy replied. "But knowing is not enough."
They continued walking until they reached the back of the school. A patch of land served as a playground. The ground was uneven. There were no swings. No slides. No shade. Only rocks and dust.
A group of children played tag anyway, laughing as if the world around them was not collapsing slowly in silence.
Timothy stopped and watched them. Sothing in his chest tightened. Not anger. Not pity. Sothing heavier. Sothing sharper.
The teacher approached again. "We do what we can, sir. The community helps sotis. Parents donate wood or nails. We repair what we can. But we cannot fix everything."
Timothy asked, "Do you receive help from private groups?"
"Sotis, but not enough. We are far from the capital. Most donors prefer schools that are easier to reach."
Timothy looked at the cracked buildings again. The broken windows. The patched walls. The children who deserved better than this.
He turned to Hana. "Schedule a eting with the Departnt of Education."
She nodded. "What is the agenda?"
He looked at the school one more ti before answering.
"We will start a foundation."
Hana blinked. "A foundation?"
"Yes," Timothy said. "TG Education Initiative. We will rebuild schools that the system forgot. Not small repairs. Full reconstruction. New classrooms. New books. New chairs. Computers. Clean water systems. Solar grids. Internet access."
The teacher overheard and looked stunned.
"Sir," she said hesitantly, "will you really help schools like ours?"
Timothy t her eyes. "Not help. Transform."
He surveyed the grounds again.
"We will prioritize places like this. Places that never make headlines. Places that have children who want to learn but have nothing to learn with."
Hana wrote everything down quickly, but her expression softened. She understood what Timothy was forming in his head. This was not a gesture. It was a commitnt.
Timothy stepped closer to the teacher.
"Before we leave, may I speak with your principal?"
"Yes, sir. I will call her."
The principal arrived shortly. She looked tired, but she stood with dignity.
Timothy introduced himself. She tried to remain composed, but her eyes flicked to the convoy outside.
"What do you need, sir?" she asked.
Timothy shook his head. "Not what I need. What your students need. Tell everything this school lacks. Everything. Make a list. We will return."
The principal held her breath for a mont, as if steadying herself.
"I will prepare it," she said.
"Good," Timothy replied. "Because this school will not look like this for much longer."
As they left the grounds, the children peeked out of windows. So waved shyly. So whispered to each other. So simply watched with wide eyes.
Timothy watched them, too.
Inside the SUV, Hana closed her notebook.
"This will be expensive," she said.
"Everything worth doing is expensive," Timothy replied.
"And once you start, you cannot stop."
"I do not plan to stop."
The vehicle began moving. The school grew smaller in the rear window until it disappeared behind the trees.
Timothy looked ahead.
"Schedule the eting," he said. "We begin before the year ends."
The river would power their hos.
The school would empower their children.
For Timothy, this was no longer just an energy project.
It was the beginning of sothing far larger.
A country could not rise if its students learned in ruins.
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