The glass casket, once a shield, now seemed a fragile and frosted barrier against the tide of faith.
The air crackled with anticipation, a million whispers blending into a thrumming hum. The Quirino Grandstand was bathed in darkness. It was a sea of maroon shirts. A tide of devotion pulsed towards the lone figure in the center. The Black Nazarene, shrouded in its glass casket, seemed to hold the weight of a million hopes, a million prayers.
A tremor ran through the crowd at 4:45 AM. The ropes strained as the first tug pulled the holy image forward. A thousand hands, eager and hopeful, clawed at the air, seeking a touch, a blessing. Rain lashed down, slicking the Black asphalt road, but the fervor remained undimmed. Bare feet, numb with cold and devotion, pounded the pavement, chasing the receding figure.
By 6:30 AM, the throng had swelled to a monstrous 700,000, a churning mass of maroon and brown. The Nazarene, once a swift procession, became a slow, inexorable crawl, choked by the sheer density of the faithful. The rain, instead of deterring, seemed to fuel the frenzy, a baptism of sweat and tears.
Then, a shriek ripped through the air. A rope, frayed by years of fervent hands, snapped. Bodies tumbled, cries mingled with prayers. Panic flickered at the edges of the crowd, but the wave of devotion rolled on, unstoppable. Medics, ghosts in red coats, materialized from the chaos, plucking the injured from the human tide. Police, their faces grim, formed a thin blue line, trying to stem the flow.
On Quezon Bridge, the devotees reached a fever pitch. An ocean of maroon, they pushed and pulled, their voices a guttural chant, a desperate plea for salvation. The glass casket, once a shield, now seemed a fragile and frosted barrier against the tide of faith.
The procession, once a joyous march, became a test of endurance, a battle against fatigue and fear. Time stretched, minutes morphing into hours, the sun climbing its zenith, then sinking towards the horizon. Finally, after 14 hours and 59 agonizing minutes, the Nazarene reached its destination.
Exhausted but exhilarated, the crowd dispersed, leaving behind a trail of sweat, tears, and discarded plastic bottles. The air, once thick with anticipation, now hung heavy with the aftermath of a miracle. The Traslación was over. Its echoes would linger. They serve as a testament to the unwavering faith that can move mountains, or, in this case, a glass casket.
