They arrived home when the sky had fully darkened.
Haya waited for Amar to park the motorcycle before entering the house. His legs felt unsteady—whether from the ride or from what he had seen at the shoreline, he couldn't tell. The image of her still burned behind his eyelids. That straw hat. That wind-touched hair. The way she had stood against the dying sun, as if waiting for something he couldn't name.
Haya followed Amar silently, his footsteps heavy against the concrete path. The porch light was on, warm and yellow, spilling through the windows onto the small garden his mother kept.
The door swung open.
Both were welcomed by their mother, who stood in the hallway still wrapped in her telekung—the white prayer garment flowing loosely around her shoulders, her prayer beads still threaded through her fingers. The scent of incense lingered in the air, thin and sweet, mixing with something else. Something savory.
Curry.
"Took you too long for a sightseeing trip, don't you think?" she said, her voice gentle but
Knowing.
"Sorry, Mom," Amar replied easily. "We got caught up watching the sunset."
She nodded, then her eyes found Haya's face. Her expression shifted—just slightly, just enough.
"Haya." She stepped closer, tilting her head. "What's wrong with your eyes?"
Haya flinched. He had forgotten. The tears. The crying he had done on the beach, the
release he had finally allowed himself. His eyes must be red, swollen, obvious.
"It's nothing," he said quickly, looking away. "Just...tired."
His mother studied him for a long moment.
"Hahaha." Amar laughed awkwardly, stepping between them. "There was a lot of dust on the road, Mom. You know how it is. The wind was pretty strong near the coast."
She glanced at her eldest son. Then back at Haya.
"...I see," she said finally. Her voice carried weight—weight that said I know there's more, but I won't ask now. "Now, now. Go take a bath. Pray. Then come eat the curry mee I cooked."
"Where's Inari?" Amar asked, grateful for the subject change.
"Upstairs. Doing her homework, supposedly." Their mother shook her head. "Though I suspect she's watching something on her phone."
The night went on.
Haya bathed in silence, the hot water doing nothing to thaw the cold knot in his chest. He prayed mechanically, the words familiar but hollow. When he descended to eat, the curry mee was perfect—rich, spicy, comforting.
He ate without tasting.
Amar sat across from him, watching quietly. Their mother had already finished and retreated to the living room, leaving the brothers alone. The clink of spoons against ceramic bowls filled the silence.
"You should sleep early," Amar said finally.
Haya nodded, not trusting his voice.
"And Haya." Amar's tone shifted—softer, careful. "What you told me today...it stays between us. Until you're ready."
Haya looked up. His brother's eyes were steady, warm, present in a way that made his chest ache.
"...Thank you," he whispered
The lights dimmed one by one—first the kitchen, then the living room, then the hallway. Their mother kissed Haya's forehead without asking what was wrong, her lips dry and warm against his skin.
Haya stood in the darkened hallway, listening to the house breathe around him. The refrigerator hummed. A gecko chirped from the ceiling. Somewhere outside, a dog barked once, then fell silent.
He climbed the stairs slowly. Each step creaked under his weight, familiar sounds that suddenly felt too loud. His room waited for him—bed unmade, window cracked open, the faint smell of yesterday's sweat still lingering in the air.
He did not turn on the light.
He sat on the edge of the mattress, removing his shirt by touch alone. The fabric caught on his shoulder, then released. He lay back, staring at the ceiling he could not see, not long after that he fall asleep .
Morning light crept through the kitchen windows, pale and indifferent.
Haya descended the stairs to find the family already gathered—his mother at the stove, Inari hunched over her phone, Amar sipping coffee with the calm of someone who had already decided something. The air smelled of toasted bread and kopi. Normal. Ordinary.
"About time," Inari muttered, not looking up. "I thought you'd sleep until noon."
"Didn't you get lucky to woke up earlier," Haya replied flatly, sliding into his seat.
Inari stuck her tongue out. Their mother shook her head, hiding a smile.
Haya reached for his bread. Buttered it. Took a bite. The routine comforted him—this small, predictable rhythm of morning.
Then Amar cleared his throat.
"Mom," he said, setting down his cup. "Have something to tell you."
The kitchen quieted. Even Inari looked up.
"I'm going to work during the semester break," Amar continued, casual as commenting on the weather. "Found a café near campus that needs extra hands. Pays well."
The bread turned to ash in Haya's mouth.
"I'll be leaving after a week," Amar said, stirring his coffee again. "New semester starts in about a month and half , I guess , but I want to settle in early. Get used to the routine."
Haya set his spoon down carefully, afraid his hand might shake. Afraid they might see.
"That's...sudden," their mother said, though she didn't sound surprised. Only sad. She wiped her hands on her apron, suddenly needing something to do. "When did you plan this?"
"Last week." Amar smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I just didn't want to make a big deal out of it."
"Last week?" Inari's voice rose, phone forgotten on the table. "You didn't tell us?"
"I just did."
The kitchen fell silent except for the ticking clock. Haya said nothing. He stared at his half-eaten bread, the butter melting into the crevices, seeping through like something being lost.
A week.
He has a week.
The thought should have comforted him. Instead, it felt like borrowed time—seven days of pretending this wasn't coming, seven days of watching Amar pack in slow motion.
"Well," their mother said, forcing brightness into her voice. "At least you'll be home for a while longer. We can have proper meals together."
"Yeah," Amar agreed. "Thought I'd help around here too, before I go."
"Help?" Inari snorted. "You'll just sleep all day long like Haya."
"Hey," Haya protested weakly, but no one laughed.
The breakfast continued. Their mother asked practical questions about the job—hours, pay, where he'd stay. Inari were in dilemma either to be happy or sad to hear that her brother will only be present only for another week.
Amar answered easily, confidently, as if he hadn't just set an expiration date on his presence.
Haya said little. He counted the days in his head, already feeling them slip.
Haya escaped to his room after breakfast, muttering something about being tired. No one stopped him. Perhaps they saw the hollowness in his eyes, or perhaps they simply had their own distractions—Amar's announcement, the week ahead, the small negotiations of family life.
He closed the door. The click of the latch sounded final.
The bed welcomed him like an old friend who asked no questions. He fell onto it, face-up, phone clutched loosely in his hand. The ceiling above was familiar—white paint, cracked in three places near the corner, a small water stain shaped vaguely like a cloud. He had stared at this ceiling countless nights. Countless mornings. Countless afternoons when school felt too heavy and home felt too small.
He unlocked his phone. Scrolled. Closed the app. Opened another. Scrolled again.
Nothing registered.
The screen glowed against his face, casting pale light in the dimming room. Notifications appeared—Danish in the group chat, something about a game; Zul sharing a meme; Annis asking if everyone was free next week. He read them without absorbing. His thumbs hovered over the keyboard, then withdrew.
"What should I even say?"
He set the phone aside. It buzzed again, ignored.
The ceiling waited.
He stared at the cracks. They branched like rivers on a map, leading nowhere. His mind drifted toward her—not by choice, but by gravity, as if thought itself were water finding the lowest point.
That girl.
He had seen her twice now. Once at the beach, through the haze of pain and confusion. Once at the shoreline, standing against the sunset while Amar's motorcycle carried him away. Both times, she had been still. Watching. Waiting.
But when he tried to summon her image, only fragments came.
A straw hat—white, wide-brimmed, casting shadow over her face. He couldn't see her eyes. A dress, pale and simple, moving slightly with wind he couldn't feel. Hair, dark and long, but was it straight or wavy? He didn't know. He couldn't know. The details dissolved like wet paper, leaving only the certainty that she had been there and the frustration that he could prove nothing.
He reached for belated memory—yesterday, sharp and recent. The beach with his friends. The headache that drove him to his knees. The ride home with Amar, the wind cutting through his jacket, the sun bleeding into the sea. And there, at the edge of vision, her figure against the light.
"Had she been real? Had Amar seen her too?"
He couldn't ask. The question lodged in his throat like a stone.
The hat. The dress. The shoreline. The fragments refused to merge.
"Had she been real?"
Again.
The question circled him like a vulture.
"If she is real, why am i the only one could see her?"
"If memory, why couldn't he place her?"
"If dream, why did she feel more certain than being awake?"
He squeezed his eyes shut. Tried to force the fragments together.
"Who are you?" His temples throbbed.
A dull ache spread behind his eyes, the same pressure from the beach, the same warning.
He released the effort. The pain subsided. The fragments scattered.
His phone buzzed again. He didn't look.
Afternoon light crept through the curtains, slow and golden, stretching across the ceiling like honey. He watched it move, marking time he wasn't living. Minutes. Hours. The stain that looked like a cloud shifted from white to cream to orange as the sun descended.
A knock at the door.
"Lunch!" his mother called.
"Not hungry," he answered, voice rough from disuse.
Footsteps retreated. Silence returned.
He lay still. Breathed. Stared at the ceiling where the light continued its patient journey, indifferent to whether he witnessed it or not.
And still, she waited in the fragments between memory and dream.
If I go to the beach again, he wondered, will she be there?
The afternoon had begun its slow descent when the knock came.
Four o'clock. Haya knew without checking—there was a quality to the light at this hour, a slant of gold that cut through the gap in his curtains and painted a thin line across his floor. He had watched it travel since morning, his only measure of time passing.
The knock repeated. Firmer.
"Haya."
He didn't answer. He wasn't asleep, but his body felt weighted to the mattress, as if the air itself had grown thick and pressing.
The door opened anyway.
Amar stood in the frame, backlit by the hallway's afternoon glow. He took in the scene with a single glance—the drawn curtains, the dim room, the phone discarded on the pillow beside Haya's head. His expression didn't shift. Not to worry. Not to anger. Simply observation, patient and complete.
"Still doing nothing?" Amar asked.
"Something like that," Haya replied, voice rough from disuse.
Amar stepped inside. Closed the door behind him. The room returned to its half-light, the two of them suspended in the amber haze that filtered through fabric.
"Mom mentioned something yesterday," Amar said, settling on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, pulling Haya slightly toward him. "That open hut she wants to build. Under the big tree."
Haya blinked. The memory surfaced slowly—his mother's excited voice, her hands sketching
shapes in the air, Inari's complaints about dishes. It felt like weeks ago. It was yesterday.
"I remember," he said.
"She wants us to help." Amar paused. "But not today. Not right away."
Haya turned his head slightly, enough to see his brother's profile against the muted light.
"Then what?"
"The fence near the paddy field. Some posts rotted through. Needs clearing before we can mend it properly."
He moved to the window, pulled the curtain aside. Light flooded in, harsh and sudden. Haya squinted, raising an arm to shield his eyes.
"Come with me," Amar said, still facing the window. "Or stay here and keep counting cracks in
your ceiling. But I'm asking you to come."
Silence stretched between them, filled with the hum of insects outside, the distant clatter of Inari downstairs, the soft tick of time.
Haya sat up.
His joints ached from stillness. His eyes burned from staring at nothing. The phone on his pillow had gone dark, forgotten.
"Fine," he said, voice barely above a whisper.
Amar nodded, still facing the window. "Good. Bring water. It's hot."
They left the room together, descending the stairs in single file. Their mother looked up from the living room, surprise flickering across her face before she hid it with a smile. Inari made some comment Haya didn't catch, too busy adjusting to the brightness of the waking world.
The work was simple. Repetitive. Clearing weeds that had choked the wooden posts, sawing through rotted sections where moisture had weakened the grain, stacking the damaged wood for later burning. Haya moved without thinking, his hands finding the rhythm his mind couldn't. Amar worked beside him, neither speaking nor forcing conversation, their shadows stretching longer with each passing hour.
By six o'clock, the sun had begun its final descent, painting the paddy fields in shades of orange and gold. They stood together, surveying their work—cleared ground, exposed posts,
the skeleton of what needed rebuilding.
"Tomorrow," Amar said, "we measure. The space under the tree. What materials we'll need."
Haya nodded, too tired to protest, too empty to fear.
"Then we start looking," Amar continued. "For the right wood and some tools too."
The week stretched ahead of them, finite and counting down. But for now, there was this—brothers standing in the dying light, planning something that would outlast the days they had left together.