Home smelled the same.
That was the first thing Hidayah noticed when the door opened.
Not the furniture. Not the familiar layout. Not even the way her mother's slippers were placed slightly off to the side of the shoe rack, as if she'd kicked them aside in a hurry.
It was the smell.
Warm rice. Hot oil. Something simmering patiently on the stove — not rushed, not complicated, just steady. A smell that had lived in her bones long before she knew how to name longing.
Her chest tightened before she could stop it.
For a brief, irrational moment, she stayed standing at the threshold, one hand still gripping the strap of her bag, as if her body needed confirmation that this was real. That she hadn't imagined it during long nights overseas when homesickness crept in quietly, pretending to be exhaustion.
"Hidayah."
Her mother reached her first.
Not rushing. Not crying. Just opening her arms as if this was the most natural thing in the world — as if Hidayah had only been gone for a long weekend instead of half a year in another country where she'd learned how to survive on unfamiliar streets and borrowed courage.
Hidayah stepped into the embrace and held on.
Her mother's hand slid up her back, firm and grounding, palm warm through the thin fabric of her shirt. The familiar weight of it settled something inside her chest, like an anchor dropping.
"You've lost weight," her mother said quietly, already cataloguing, already worrying.
Hidayah laughed softly into her shoulder. The sound surprised her — lighter than she'd expected. "I ate a lot, Mak."
"Mmm. We'll fix it." Not a question. A promise.
The tension she hadn't realised she was carrying loosened, just a little.
Her father cleared his throat behind them.
"You can scold her later," Kamari said mildly. "Let her breathe first."
Hidayah pulled back, smiling, eyes bright but steady now. She looked at him properly then.
He looked the same.
Same calm presence. Same steady gaze that missed nothing. Same quiet authority that never needed to raise its voice to be felt. If her mother was warmth, her father was gravity.
"You're home," he said simply.
"Yes," she replied — and meant more than one thing.
She meant the house.
She meant the city.
She meant the part of herself that had been holding on too tightly for too long.
Only then did she become aware of Khairul standing just behind her, a respectful step away. His hands were loosely clasped in front of him, posture relaxed but attentive, eyes taking everything in without intruding.
Kamari turned to him.
"Khairul."
"Uncle."
Kamari studied him for a moment — not suspicious, not probing. Just assessing in the way he always did. Then he nodded once.
"Come in. You've been travelling too."
Khairul inclined his head. "Thank you."
No formality.
No tension.
Just inclusion.
As the door closed behind them, the sounds of home settled around Hidayah — the soft clink of dishes, the hum of the ceiling fan, the familiar rhythm of voices overlapping in the kitchen. Her shoulders finally dropped.
She set her bag down.
For the first time in months, her body believed it was safe enough to rest.
—————
The house filled quickly after that.
Jasmine arrived first, dragging Arnold behind her like she always did — one hand gripping his wrist, the other waving enthusiastically before the door even fully opened.
"HIDAYAH!"
Hidayah barely had time to brace herself before Jasmine collided with her in a full-bodied hug.
"You're back," Jasmine breathed, voice thick. "You're really back."
Hidayah laughed, hugging her tightly. "I told you I was coming home."
"I know, but still—" Jasmine pulled back to inspect her face, her hair, her posture. "You look… good. Different. But good."
Arnold hovered a step away, hands shoved into his pockets, clearly unsure how to insert himself into this moment without interrupting.
Hidayah smiled at him. "Hi, Arnold."
"Hey," he said, then added, "Welcome home."
Khairul closed the door behind them, stepping aside to let everyone move in naturally.
At some point — Hidayah wasn't sure when — the living room filled with voices, overlapping conversations, familiar rhythms snapping back into place like they'd never been interrupted.
Her mother ushered everyone toward the dining area.
"Wash your hands," she called. "Dinner's almost ready."
Jasmine grinned. "Auntie, it smells amazing."
Her mother smiled, pleased. "Sit first. Eat more later."
Arnold leaned toward Hidayah and whispered, "I missed this house."
Hidayah blinked, surprised.
Then smiled.
"Me too."
—————
Dinner was loud.
Not chaotic — just full.
Plates passed back and forth. Food refilled without asking. Kamari listened more than he spoke, occasionally interjecting with a dry comment that made Jasmine laugh too loudly and Arnold choke on his water.
Khairul sat at the table like he belonged there.
Not stiff. Not overly polite.
He responded when spoken to, asked after her parents' health, thanked her mother for the food — but otherwise let the energy of the room carry him.
Hidayah noticed.
She noticed the way her father occasionally glanced his way, not scrutinising, just observing.
She noticed how her mother automatically added food to Khairul's plate when she refilled Hidayah's.
She noticed how natural it all felt.
Halfway through dinner, Jasmine cleared her throat.
"I have something to announce."
Arnold froze.
Jasmine hooked his arm, grinning.
Hidayah's hand paused mid-air. "What?"
Jasmine beamed. "Arnold and I are engaged."
Silence.
Then—
"What?" Hidayah exclaimed, eyes wide.
Her mother smiled knowingly. Kamari raised an eyebrow.
Arnold's ears turned red.
Jasmine leaned into him proudly. "Yesterday." She then pulled out the ring from her skirt's pocket and slipped it in her finger, raising it high for all to see.
Hidayah let out a delighted laugh and reached across the table to grab Jasmine's hand. "I knew it."
"You did not," Jasmine protested.
"I absolutely did."
Arnold cleared his throat. "We didn't plan to announce it like this—"
"But it's perfect," Hidayah interrupted. "I'm so happy."
And she was.
Genuinely, deeply happy.
As if the world had decided — just for today — to be kind.
Khairul caught her eye across the table.
His smile was quiet, fond.
She felt something warm settle in her chest.
After dinner, they moved back into the living room.
Jasmine curled up on the floor with Hidayah's phone, scrolling through photos she'd taken over the past six months. Arnold sat beside her, occasionally pointing at something and murmuring a comment only she could hear.
Kamari stood near the window, arms crossed loosely as he watched the street outside — habit more than necessity.
Her mother brought out tea.
Hidayah sank into the couch beside Khairul.
Not touching.
Just close enough to feel the heat of him.
"You okay?" he asked softly.
She nodded. "I didn't realise how much I missed this."
"Home has gravity," he said. "It pulls."
She smiled. "You're included in that now."
He turned slightly toward her. "I know."
Later — much later — when the night had softened and conversations slowed, Jasmine suddenly sat up straight.
"Wait," she said. "There's something else."
Hidayah groaned. "What now?"
Jasmine grinned mischievously. "Khairul is officially part of the family now, right?"
Hidayah blinked.
Her parents exchanged a glance.
Kamari spoke calmly. "Khairul has been involved in keeping my daughter safe. He has my trust."
Khairul inclined his head respectfully.
Her mother smiled. "That already makes him family."
The room went quiet.
Not awkward.
Just meaningful.
Hidayah's eyes stung unexpectedly.
Khairul reached for her hand — not dramatic, not possessive — just enough to remind her she wasn't imagining this.
She squeezed back.
————
Later, when Jasmine and Arnold finally left — laughing, bickering lightly, promising to come over again soon — the house exhaled.
The door closed behind them with a soft, final click, and the energy they'd brought lingered for a moment before gently dispersing. Plates sat stacked in the sink. The ceiling fan hummed overhead. Outside, the street had settled into its usual nighttime rhythm.
Khairul stood near the door, keys already in hand, posture polite and contained, as if he were preparing to step back into the role he usually occupied — present but peripheral.
Kamari noticed. "Stay a little longer."
The words weren't loud, but they carried weight.
Khairul paused. He glanced down at the keys in his palm, then back up. "I don't want to intrude."
"You're not," Kamari said evenly, the way he always did when he meant something and saw no need to dress it up. "You've already been walking this road with us."
The statement hung there — not dramatic, not demanding. Simply true.
Khairul's gaze shifted to Hidayah.
She was curled slightly into herself on the sofa, exhaustion finally catching up now that there was nothing left to prove. When she met his eyes, she nodded once.
He stayed.
They didn't talk about danger. Or what had happened. Or the months that had stretched them thin in ways none of them wanted to name tonight.
They talked about ordinary things.
Work — frustrating colleagues, small victories, the quiet satisfaction of tasks completed. Traffic — routes that were always jammed no matter the hour. Food — where to find the best late-night supper, which stalls had changed hands, which flavours still tasted like memory.
Life, unfolding gently.
Hidayah listened more than she spoke, the voices rising and falling around her like a familiar song. Her mother moved between the kitchen and living room, wiping counters that were already clean. Her father leaned back in his chair, contributing occasionally, present without dominating the space.
At some point, without fully deciding to, Hidayah shifted closer.
Her shoulder brushed Khairul's arm. He didn't move away. Slowly, she leaned in, her temple resting against his shoulder, the solid warmth of him grounding her further. His breathing was steady, unhurried. The kind that told her there was no rush to be anywhere else.
Her eyes drifted closed.
She caught fragments of conversation — a chuckle here, a quiet comment there — and let them pass over her. The fatigue she'd been holding at bay all day finally loosened its grip, settling into something softer.
Something safe.
She realised, dimly, that no one had told her to sit up. No one had teased her. No one had made her feel like she was taking up too much space.
She was allowed to rest.
Safe.
Held.
Home.
The words formed without effort, threading together in her mind.
Later, when she woke enough to shift, Khairul was still there. Her parents were still talking softly. The house still hummed with the quiet assurance that nothing needed to be done tonight.
For now, it was enough to exist.
And for the first time in a long while, Hidayah did — without bracing, without guarding, without counting the cost.
She simply stayed.
————-
That night, as she lay in her old bed, the ceiling fan humming softly above her, Hidayah stared at the familiar cracks in the ceiling.
She remembered tracing them with her eyes as a teenager, inventing shapes when sleep refused to come. A crooked line that looked like a river. A faint branch that split into two, then three. They were still there — unchanged, stubbornly ordinary — and the constancy of it made her smile.
The sheets smelled faintly of detergent and sunlight. Her pillow was firmer than the one she'd used overseas, but it cradled her head in a way her body recognised immediately. Every muscle she hadn't realised was tense began to loosen, one by one, as if her body had been waiting for permission to rest.
This life.
The words surfaced quietly, without fanfare.
Not the version she'd imagined during her loneliest moments — no dramatic redemption, no grand arrival. Just a room she knew, a house that held her without questions, people who stayed even when she disappeared for a while.
This second chance.
She thought of how easily she'd believed she had to earn it. How fear had convinced her that stability was fragile, that happiness came with conditions. That if she relaxed her grip for even a moment, everything might slip through her fingers.
But tonight, lying here, she felt the truth settle deeper.
It wasn't dramatic.
It wasn't perfect.
The ceiling fan made a faint clicking sound on each rotation. A car passed by outside. Somewhere in the house, a door closed softly. Ordinary noises, anchoring her to the present.
It was real.
And real, she was beginning to understand, didn't vanish just because she was afraid of it. Real stayed. Real waited. Real made space for you to leave and come back altered, carrying different versions of yourself.
For the first time in months — maybe longer — she wasn't bracing for the next loss. She wasn't cataloguing risks or rehearsing goodbyes in her head. The future no longer felt like something she had to survive.
Her breathing slowed, matching the steady rhythm of the fan.
Tomorrow could come when it came.
Tonight, she allowed herself this small, radical mercy: to believe that what she had was not temporary by default. That she didn't need to keep one foot outside the door.
She turned onto her side, pulling the blanket closer, the fabric whispering against her skin.
For the first time, she wasn't afraid of losing it.
Because for the first time, she trusted that even if things changed — as they always did — she would not lose herself in the process.
The thought carried her gently toward sleep, held by the quiet certainty of home.