Six months was long enough for the body to forget fear.
That was something Hidayah only realised in hindsight — not as a conscious thought she sat down to examine, but as a quiet truth embedded in how she moved through her days now. In the absence of threat, her body had slowly rewritten its own habits, loosening patterns that had once felt permanent.
She woke without checking her phone first.
No sharp intake of breath. No instinctive scan for missed calls or unread messages that might demand immediate attention. Some mornings, she didn't reach for it at all until she was already dressed, the day already underway.
She walked without scanning reflections in glass panels.
Storefronts, office windows, polished car doors — they passed her by without triggering that subtle turn of the head, that unconscious need to confirm who was behind her. Her shoulders stayed relaxed. Her steps stayed even.
She laughed without calculating exits.
It surprised her sometimes, the sound of it — unguarded, full-bodied. She stayed where she was, back turned, attention fully given. No part of her mind mapped escape routes anymore. No internal countdown ticked in the background.
Life had settled into a rhythm so ordinary it felt luxurious.
Morning runs when the air was still cool and forgiving. Breakfast with her parents, conversations drifting from mundane household matters to small observations about the news. Messages from Jasmine that ranged from incoherent voice notes sent mid-laughter to overly detailed descriptions of Arnold's cooking disasters, complete with photos that proved his confidence far exceeded his skill.
Evenings often ended with Khairul's voice.
Sometimes tired. Sometimes teasing. Always steady.
They didn't always have much to say. Some nights were just check-ins — a shared silence stretched across the line, comfortable and unforced. The kind of presence that didn't demand explanation.
There were gaps now where anxiety used to live.
Hollow spaces that had once been filled with vigilance, with constant assessment and quiet dread. She noticed them only because they were empty — and she didn't rush to occupy them with anything else.
She let them remain.
Michael did not exist in those spaces.
Not as a memory. Not as a name. Not even as a shadow hovering at the edge of her thoughts. There was no active effort involved in this absence. It wasn't suppression or denial. It was simply irrelevance.
If someone had asked her when she last thought about him, she wouldn't have known how to answer.
Because the truth was, she hadn't.
Not once.
Not in Beijing.
Not on the flight home.
Not even in the quiet hours at night when thoughts usually wandered uninvited.
Her mind no longer circled old wounds looking for meaning. Her body no longer reacted to echoes that weren't there.
Her life had moved on.
And she had let it.
That, she realised, was the most radical part — not that she survived, not that she rebuilt, but that she allowed herself to keep going without dragging the past behind her like proof of endurance.
Fear had not been defeated.
It had simply been starved of relevance.
And in its place, something steadier had taken root — a life lived forward, unafraid of its own ordinary joy.
—————
"Are you listening?"
Hidayah blinked and looked up from her notes.
"Yes," she said reflexively.
Khairul raised an eyebrow, amused. "You didn't answer the question."
She laughed softly. "Sorry. What was the question?"
They were sitting at a café near his workplace — nothing fancy, just somewhere halfway between errands and dinner. She had her notebook open, pen tapping absently against the margin.
"I was asking if you want to visit Aunt Mariam next weekend," he repeated. "She keeps asking about you."
Hidayah smiled. "She does?"
"Every time she sees me."
"Then, yes," she said easily. "Of course."
He watched her for a moment, then nodded. "You seem… lighter."
She considered that. "I think I am."
It wasn't something she'd articulated before, but saying it out loud felt right.
Khairul leaned back slightly.
No probing. No analysis.
Just acceptance.
She went back to her notes, unaware that the word safe no longer came with conditions attached.
—————
That evening, her mother asked her to help fold laundry.
There was no ceremony to it — just a basket set down in the middle of the living room, clothes still warm from the dryer. They sat on the floor facing each other, knees brushing occasionally, the television murmuring in the background without anyone really watching. A variety show laughed when no one else did. The scent of fabric softener lingered softly in the air, clean and faintly floral.
Hidayah picked up a towel and folded it automatically, hands remembering the rhythm without instruction. The motion was familiar enough to be meditative. Fold, smooth, stack. Each movement small, contained.
"You've settled back in well," her mother said casually, smoothing out a shirt with practiced ease.
It wasn't a question. More an observation, spoken lightly, as if commenting on the weather.
Hidayah considered it for a moment before nodding. "I didn't expect it to feel this… normal."
Her mother hummed, folding another shirt. "That's a good thing."
"It is." The word came easily.
They worked in companionable silence for a while. A pair of socks. A set of pajamas. Clothes that belonged to different versions of Hidayah — student, daughter, adult — all folded into neat piles without distinction.
Her mother glanced at her then, the way she always did when she wanted to check something without making it obvious. "You don't seem troubled."
The comment was gentle, but attentive.
Hidayah paused mid-fold, the fabric resting loosely in her hands. She searched inward, not out of obligation, but out of curiosity. There was no tightness in her chest. No restless edge beneath her skin. No mental list of worries waiting their turn.
She shook her head. "I'm not."
And she meant it.
There were no withheld thoughts lurking just beyond reach. No buried anxieties quietly tapping at the edges of her mind. What she felt instead was simple and unremarkable — a steady sense of being exactly where she was meant to be in that moment.
Contentment.
Not the loud, performative kind. Just something that existed, the way air did.
Her mother didn't press further. She only nodded, satisfied, and returned to folding. Acceptance passed between them without words.
The television droned on. Someone won a prize. Applause erupted, then faded.
Hidayah stacked another finished pile and leaned back slightly, stretching her legs. She thought briefly of a past version of herself — the girl who would have waited for the other shoe to drop, who believed peace was always temporary, borrowed at best.
That girl felt very far away now.
Not gone, perhaps, but no longer steering the wheel.
Hidayah watched her mother fold the last shirt, hands steady, unhurried. She felt no urgency to explain herself, to justify her calm, to prove that this peace was deserved.
It simply was.
They gathered the folded laundry together, rising from the floor when the basket was empty. As they carried it toward the bedrooms, Hidayah realised something quietly profound.
Normal, once something she'd taken for granted, now felt like a privilege.
And tonight, it was hers to keep.
—————-
Michael sat with his hands folded neatly in his lap.
Not clasped. Not tense. Just resting there, fingers aligned, posture composed. He looked like someone waiting patiently for his turn to speak — or for something inevitable to arrive.
The room was neutral by design. Beige walls. Muted lighting calibrated to avoid harsh shadows. A desk without clutter, save for a lamp, a notepad, and a box of tissues placed deliberately within reach. Nothing sharp. Nothing personal. Nothing that invited attachment.
Across from him, his psychiatrist flipped through a file.
Dr. Lim had learned long ago how to keep her face still. Her tone was careful — neutral, observational, deliberately unprovocative.
"How have you been feeling since our last session, Michael?"
Michael smiled faintly. It didn't reach his eyes, but it didn't feel forced either.
"Clear."
She wrote the word down.
"Clear how?"
"Like the fog has lifted," he said calmly. His voice carried no urgency, no excitement. Just certainty. "I understand things better now."
Dr. Lim glanced up at him. "What things?"
Michael tilted his head slightly, as if genuinely considering how to phrase it. "That time doesn't erase truth," he said at last. "It just hides it."
The sentence settled into the room.
Silence followed — the kind that felt intentional.
Dr. Lim did not react. She adjusted her grip on the pen, then continued, as if nothing unusual had been said.
"Do you still believe your memories are from a past life?" she asked.
Michael's smile did not falter. "They aren't beliefs. They're memories."
"Memories are subjective," she replied gently. The word gently was a tool, not a kindness.
Michael leaned back in his chair, relaxed. Almost serene. The movement was unguarded, as if the room posed no threat to him at all.
"Only when they're incomplete," he said. "Mine aren't."
Dr. Lim made another note. Her handwriting remained even.
"And Hidayah?" she asked carefully. "Do you still think about her?"
For the first time, Michael paused.
Just for a second — but it was enough to register. Something shifted, like a breath caught and released.
"Not in the way you mean," he said finally.
Dr. Lim waited. Silence was often more revealing than questions.
"She's remembering," Michael continued calmly. "She just doesn't know it yet."
"Michael—"
"There's no urgency," he interrupted softly, his tone polite, almost reassuring. "That's what I realised. We have time."
His gaze remained steady, unblinking.
"People always return to what's unfinished."
The words were delivered without emphasis, without threat. They sounded like a simple observation — the kind one might make about weather patterns or human nature.
Dr. Lim closed the file slowly.
"We'll continue this next session," she said. "For now, focus on grounding techniques."
Michael nodded, compliant. He stood when prompted, movements smooth, unhurried. At the door, his hand rested briefly on the handle before he turned back.
"She's happy," he said suddenly.
Dr. Lim stiffened despite herself. "How do you know that?"
Michael smiled — genuinely this time. Warm. Almost fond.
"Because she's forgetting."
The door closed softly behind him.
Dr. Lim remained seated for several seconds after, her pen still in her hand, the room unchanged — neutral, quiet, controlled.
And yet, for the first time that afternoon, she felt the distinct, involuntary rise of hair along her arms.
Not fear.
Recognition.
—————
Hidayah fell asleep that night mid-call with Khairul, the phone still warm in her hand.
She remembered his voice fading into the background — steady, familiar, saying nothing important and everything necessary. A comment about traffic. A quiet joke she smiled at without opening her eyes. The sound of his breathing, unhurried, anchoring her to the present.
Outside, the neighbourhood was quiet.
Streetlights cast soft halos on empty roads. A stray cat crossed the pavement and disappeared between parked cars. Somewhere down the block, a door closed. Nothing rattled the windows. Nothing announced itself.
The house remained still, wrapped in its usual night sounds — the ceiling fan's low hum, the faint creak of settling walls. The kind of silence that didn't demand attention.
Life went on.
Smooth. Unbroken. Unaware.
No alarms. No sudden intuitions. No sense of being watched. Sleep took her gently, without resistance, her fingers loosening around the phone as her breathing evened out.
Elsewhere, a light remained on.
Someone sat very still, untroubled by the passing of hours. Time did not press on him the way it did on others. There was no need to rush, no need to intrude.
Patience, after all, was easiest when you believed something would eventually return to you.
And somewhere else, someone was very patient.