Dawn breaks over Divisoria the way it always has, painting the sky in gentle strokes of pink and gold. The parols sway in the early morning breeze, casting star-shaped shadows on the pavement where sixteen years of my Christmas memories are made, but this feels different this year.

Maybe it's because I'm older now?, 

or maybe it's because the crowds that once pushed and shoved through these alleys during the Christmas season seem to disappear... I run my fingers along the rough walls of these familiar alleys, feeling the pulse of a place that's slowly losing its heartbeat.

I remember how Amang used to wake me up before sunrise during December weekends. I'd whine and drag my feet, but he knew – he always knew – that magic awaited us in these narrow streets. It’s an annual tradition of hunting for Christmas decorations and “pamasko”. Back then, the air would be thick with the smell of bibingka and puto bumbong wafting from street corners, mixing with the synthetic pine scent of plastic Christmas trees being unpacked by eager vendors. But now? My younger cousin showed me her Christmas shopping haul, completed without ever leaving her bed. Her eyes glowed with satisfaction as she scrolled through pages of mass-produced decorations. "Look how much I saved!" she screamed.

Then it hits me… it's not just about the sales numbers dropping faster than fake snow in a mall display. We're losing the magic that made every Christmas in the Philippines special.

The elderly vendors try to adapt, but it's like asking them to learn a new language at their age. Some of their children have helped set up online stores, but how do you capture the smell of freshly cooked bibingka in a product description? How do you translate "tawad po" into a chatbot conversation?

While looking around.. The spaces between stalls seem wider, emptier, like gaps in a once-perfect smile. I stopped at my favorite store “Aling Rosa’s Pamasko”. Aling Rosa's weathered hands arrange her handmade parol with the same care she's shown for decades, but her eyes keep drifting to the phone her granddaughter installed with Shopee – a small window to the digital world that's slowly draining life from these streets.

"Dati, hindi ka makakaupo dito sa dami ng tao," she tells me, her voice carrying years of Christmases past. "Ngayon..." She doesn't need to finish. The quiet around us speaks volumes, broken only by the soft tapping of phones as rare customers compare her prices to online deals.

I remember being ten, barely tall enough to see over her counter, watching her fingers transform ribbons into perfect bows. She'd let me pick the colors, pretending I had an expert eye. "Magaling ka pumili," she'd say, even when I chose combinations that clashed like thunder and sunshine. Those moments taught me more than just decoration – they taught me about patience, kindness, and the beauty of imperfection.

The string of Christmas lights above us flickers, casting shadows of a long gone day. Aling Rosa catches me watching them and smiles. "Alam mo," she says, adjusting her reading glasses, "dati, hindi lang decorations ang binibili ng mga tao dito. Kwento, tawa, pagmamahal – kasama 'yan sa presyo." She's right. We didn't just buy things here – we collected moments, gathered stories, and made the magic of Christmas alive.

 A few stalls down, Manong Ben arranges his hand-painted belen figures with trembling fingers. Each piece tells a story – not just of the nativity, but of his forty years perfecting his craft. I still remember how he'd let me hold the unpainted figures sometimes, teaching me about each character in the Christmas story. "Dahan-dahan lang, anak," he'd say, his voice gentle like a grandfather sharing secrets. Now, I watch teenagers walk past his stall, their worlds contained in 6-inch screens, missing the magic right in front of them.

At the end of the day, Christmas memories shouldn't just live in our Instagram stories. They should live in the warm smiles of vendors who help us pick our decorations, in the gentle hands that wrap our purchases with care, and in the hearts of those who still believe that the real spirit of Christmas can't be found in just a shopping cart icon.

It shines with the warmth of memories, the spirit of tradition, and the hope that somehow, some part of this magic will survive the digital tide.