The sea rose like a wall of judgment against Leyte and Samar in the Philippines on the morning of 8 November 2013. The air hung heavy, metallic, the way it gets before something breaks open. Super Typhoon Haiyan—Yolanda to those who would remember her fury—was bearing down on Palo, Leyte, carrying winds that screamed at 195 miles per hour. A Category 5 monster that would carve its name into history.

Casimiro Villas Jr, a retired police chief, did what he could. He gathered his family—sixteen souls in total—into the smallest, strongest room in the house. They pressed together in that cramped space, breathing in each other’s fear, hearts hammering against ribs, whispering pleas into the dark.

Casimiro prayed that the concrete walls would hold. But concrete meant nothing to a storm like that. The wave swept in—sudden, absolute, erasing everything in a single brutal stroke. There was no time for goodbyes. No last embrace, no final words. The water hit like a hundred freight trains colliding, and suddenly Casimiro’s family was gone. Their screams were swallowed by the roar; after, there was nothing but silence. He was the only survivor.

• Tags: Issue 43, Lucell Larawan, Philippines