His name was Max

His name was Max. He had the physique of a father; almost lanky, but with the sturdy build of someone who could outrun you if he wanted to. I can't recall exactly how we became friends. Perhaps it was at one of those press conferences where reporters would huddle together, waiting for a statement that would reshape a headline. What I do remember, with clarity that refuses to fade, are the many small, happy moments that defined him: the way he always went out of his way to collaborate, to mentor, and to connect with younger journalists. Max Limpag left a legacy not just through the stories he wrote but through the compassion he showed in every interaction.

- Annie Perez

I later learned that he was once part of this newspaper during his early years as a journalist. From here, he moved through other newsrooms, each transition widening his view of the craft. Eventually, freelance work consumed much of his time, not because he didn't like structure but because the world opened itself to him. Opportunities and more stories came as he pursued them with the sincerity and intensity of someone who understood how fragile truth could be. His time as a writing fellow deepened his understanding of community journalism --the world in which he moved and the world he fiercely defended. Despite producing hard-hitting investigations at the local level, Max's doors were always open. He ext