The television was on, volume low.
Some variety show flickered across the screen, laughter rising and falling in a rhythm no one in the living room was following.
Hidayah stood just inside the doorway, her bag still slung over one shoulder.
"Abah. Mak," she said quietly. "Can we talk?"
Her father muted the television immediately. Her mother turned fully toward her, concern sharpening into focus.
Hidayah set her bag down and sat.
She didn't rush.
She told them everything in order—the messages she hadn't replied to, the library, how she had never given her number, how Khairul arrived without questions. She mentioned the police station last, not as drama, but as fact.
Her voice stayed even.
She had learnt, once already, that composure mattered.
When she finished, the room remained still.
The television screen glowed, frozen on a frame no one was watching.
Her father leaned back slightly, hands folded, eyes fixed on the opposite wall as he thought.
Then he spoke.
"From now on," he said, "I'll be fetching you every day after school. Even on club days."
Hidayah looked up. "Abah—"
"You can tell Jasmine that," he continued, tone even. "If I cannot fetch you, you ask Khairul. If he's not available, you message me and take a cab home with Jasmine."
There was no anger in his voice.
No panic.
Only firm instructions. It was bizarre, though, that he hadn't enquired about Khairul's identity or why Hidayah sought out Khairul rather than him or her mother. Simply acknowledging that his daughter had someone she could turn to in an emergency.
Hidayah felt something shift — not resistance, not relief, just acceptance knowing her father was looking out for her.
"…Okay," she said.
"I am not punishing you…" her father added, looking directly at her now. "This is me doing my job."
Her mother reached out, taking Hidayah's hand between both of hers. "You didn't do anything wrong," she said softly. "And you don't have to handle this alone."
Hidayah nodded once.
In her first life, she had chosen silence.
In this one, she chose communications and receptiveness.
Her phone vibrated gently on the coffee table.
A message from Jasmine.
Did you reach home safely?
Hidayah replied.
I'm home. I'll tell you everything tomorrow.
Almost immediately—
Jasmine: Okay. I'm not letting this go.
She exhaled softly.
Then another vibration.
Khairul: Let me know when you're settled.
Hidayah typed back.
Hidayah: I am. I told my parents. My dad will be fetching me every day after school now.
The reply came quickly.
Khairul: That's good.
A pause.
Then—
Khairul: I'll adjust my schedule.If anything feels off, you can call. Any time.
Hidayah stared at the screen for a moment longer than necessary.
Hidayah: Thank you. I will.
She set the phone down.
Her father reached for the remote and turned the television off completely this time.
The screen went dark.
The conversation was over — but the perimeter it created was not.
Khairul sat in his car for several minutes after reaching home. The engine was off. Streetlights cast long shadows across the windscreen, striping his hands where they rested on the steering wheel.
He replayed the evening in fragments — not the police station, not the paperwork, but the way Hidayah had walked beside him out of the library.
Quiet. Upright. Controlled.
Too controlled.
He had seen fear before.
What unsettled him was restraint.
Her message echoed again in his mind.
My dad will be fetching me every day after school now.
Good.
Family presence changed variables. Reduced exposure.
But it also confirmed something else — she had not dismissed what happened. She had acted.
That mattered.
Khairul reached for his phone, already recalculating timing, routes, and availability. He didn't frame it as protection.
He framed it as responsibility.
Someone had tested a boundary.
Now the boundary existed.
Khairul started the engine and pulled away from the curb.
Behind him, a family had closed ranks.
Ahead of him, the road was clear.
And somewhere between those two points, someone was about to realise that quiet attention had consequences.