Lola Consuelo's grip on my hand was gentle and firm, pulling me deeper into the bahay na bato than I had ever dared to venture. We didn't head toward the open living area or the bedroom, but toward a discreet, low door tucked away near the furnace in the dirty kitchen, normally concealed by a hanging woven mat. The moment the woven shield was brushed aside and the door pushed open, the temperature dropped. The air here was immediately cooler, heavier, and thick with the concentrated, cloying scent of dried herbs, camphor, and old woodsmoke.
