Haya knew with absolute, terrifying certainty that he could no longer trust human words. The truth would never be gifted to him in a voluntary confession or a tearful apology. If he wanted to know why his family had systematically dismantled and rewritten his reality, he had to find the physical, unalterable evidence himself.
He stood up from the concrete porch steps, his jaw hardening into a rigid line. His eyes turned slowly toward the narrow, dark gravel path that wrapped around the weathered side of the house.
Behind the main residential structure, tucked beneath the suffocating shadow of a massive, overgrown rambutan tree, lay the old wooden storage shed. It was a humble, single-room building constructed from rough-hewn timber. Over the years, the structure hadn't changed; it had simply grown old, its wood warping under the relentless Malaysian humidity. Once, it had been his late father's proud workshop, a place filled with the smell of sawdust and the ring of iron tools. But since his father left, the shed had devolved into his mother's private archive—a graveyard for things too painful to keep in the open spaces of the house, but too heavy to ever throw away. It was a forgotten place that his mother rarely, if ever, visited, claiming the damp, stagnant air triggered her chronic asthma.
Haya stepped off the concrete porch, his slippers crunching softly against the gravel driveway. He slunk into the deep, cast shadows along the side of the home, moving silently toward the dark silhouette of the shed like a thief in his own sanctuary.
He stopped in front of the weathered wooden door. The padlock hanging from the latch was cold, heavy, and visibly coated in a thick layer of rust, but it didn't hold against sheer determination. Crouching low, Haya's fingers brushed against a long iron rod discarded near the concrete drainage line. Wedging the metal bar into the gap, he delivered a firm, calculated twist. The weathered brass latch gave way with a sharp, metallic snap that sounded like a gunshot in his ears.
His heart instantly leapt into his throat. Haya froze solid in the shadows, his muscles locking as his eyes darted back toward the glowing kitchen window of the house.
The curtains remained drawn. No shadows moved inside. The heavy, ambient silence of the village night swallowed the sound completely, leaving only the distant, rhythmic murmur of the sea.
He slipped inside the shed, closing the creaking wooden door behind him until only a razor-thin sliver of silver moonlight filtered through the cracked wall planks. The air inside was suffocatingly thick, heavy with the sharp, pungent scent of mildew, rotting timber, and decades of completely undisturbed dust that coated his throat with every shallow breath.
The faint moonlight helped Haya grasp the vague layout of his surroundings, but attempting to find a detailed clue in the pitch black would be a foolish attempt. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his phone and clicked the flashlight on.
The beam of cold white light cut through the dense gloom, illuminating stacks of collapsed cardboard boxes, broken plastic chairs, and old gardening tools covered in thick, geometric cobwebs. He ignored the rusty machinery and pushed deeper toward the back corner, where three heavy, blue plastic storage tubs sat stacked on top of one another.
His eyes locked onto a familiarly strange box.
Haya reached out and pried the plastic lid off the middle bin. The static crackle of the plastic sounded deafeningly loud in the enclosed space. His hands shook slightly as he began to dig through the disorganized contents, throwing aside old utility bills from years ago, faded tax receipts, a broken ceramic clock, and stacks of yellowed school notebooks belonging to Amar and Inari.
He dug deeper, his fingers brushing past old, faded family photos until they hit something smooth, stiff, and distinctly synthetic buried at the very bottom of the tub.
Haya pulled it out into the beam of light. It was a transparent, heavy-duty clear plastic file folder. The plastic was scuffed and covered in a fine layer of gritty gray dust, but what caught his attention—what made his breath instantly hitch and lock completely in his throat—was the official emblem stamped sharply across the top front cover.
It was the blue, intricate crest of the Royal Malaysia Police.
Beneath the emblem, faded black ink spelled out an official case file classification number, followed by a specific date from exactly six years ago.
Haya's fingers gripped the edges of the plastic folder so tightly that his knuckles turned stark white. Six years ago? His mind raced, calculating the math, why was there a police file dated from when he was twelve?
He was about to slide the dense stack of documents out from the protective sleeve, his eyes scrambling across the first page to catch the official report, when a sudden, heavy sound shattered the quiet night outside.
CRUNCH.
The distinct, unmistakable sound of heavy boots stepping onto the gravel driveway directly outside the shed made Haya flinch violently.
"Haya!"
Amar's voice boomed through the darkness, originating from the front porch but rapidly moving down the side path of the house with terrifying momentum. The tone wasn't furious or explosive anymore; it was tight, strained, and laced with a desperate, defensive urgency that bordered on pure panic.
"Haya! I know you're out here! Come on, get back inside the house right now!"
Haya's survival instinct kicked in with violent, instantaneous speed. Like a flash of lightning, he shoved the clear police file flat into the black canvas bag he had brought with him, pulling his oversized t-shirt down for a brief second to ensure no dust stuck onto his shirt. He zipped the bag, throwing it onto his back. He threw the plastic lid back onto the storage tub and kicked a stray cardboard box in front of the stack to mask his tracks, stepping out of the shed's broken doorway just as the bright, sweeping beam of a flashlight rounded the corner of the house.
The intense light blinded him instantly, pinning him against the rotting wood of the shed door like a specimen on a board.
Amar stood a mere five paces away, holding the heavy metal flashlight. His massive frame completely blocked the narrow path back to the safety of the porch, his face cast in deep, harsh shadows by the upward glare of the light. He lowered the beam slightly, letting it rest squarely on Haya's chest, his sharp eyes instantly tracking his younger brother's posture.
If I show any sign of hesitation, he'll know I'm into something again, Haya's mind screamed in panic. Fuhhh... breathe, Haya! Cover this up!
With a fluid, incredibly smooth motion masked by the shadows behind his hips, Haya slipped the straps off his shoulders and swung his black canvas bag into the darkness, letting it drop silently into the deep concrete ditch running along the side of the house.
A split second later, Amar swung the flashlight directly into Haya's face, confronting him fully.
But Haya didn't back down. He didn't flinch away from the blinding light. He kept his arms loosely crossed over his stomach, physically mimicking a defensive posture to conceal the fact that he had just discarded his bag. He lifted his chin defiantly, meeting his brother's gaze man-to-man in the dark.
"Why don't you tell me already?" Haya said, his voice cutting through the night air. "The secret that you favor so much is..."
The statement was a direct, unyielding strike. He didn't phrase it as an interrogation. He didn't ask for permission. He delivered it as an absolute, immutable fact that could no longer be bargained with.
Amar froze dead in his tracks. The heavy flashlight in his hand wavered for a fraction of a second, the white beam dancing erratically across the wild fern bushes before stabilizing back on Haya's face. The defensive, aggressive mask on the older brother's face didn't just crack this time—it shattered completely, revealing a profound, exhausted hollow beneath that made him look years older than he actually was.
"Why did you have to lie to me, Amar?" Haya pressed, taking a slow, deliberate step forward, his voice cracking with the sheer, unbearable weight of a stolen reality. "Why do you guys keep it away from me? Why did you tell me to shut my mouth? Why do I have to be treated as an outsider in my own family? Do I really not deserve to know a single bit about myself?"
Amar let out a long, ragged breath that sounded closer to a physical groan of defeat. He didn't deny the accusation. He didn't yell. The fierce, overbearing brother from the dinner table vanished entirely, replaced by a man sagging under the immense, crushing weight of a dark secret he had carried on his shoulders alone for far too long. He lowered the flashlight entirely, letting its beam point uselessly at the muddy ground, enveloping them both in the shadows of the yard once more.
"Let me ask you something, Haya," Amar asked softly, his voice sounding incredibly tired, drained of all hostility.
"No! Answer me first!" Haya shouted back, refusing to back down as frustration boiled over in his chest.
"I'll answer your question... but only if you can answer mine first," Amar offered, his eyes locked onto Haya's.
Haya scoffed, his eyes narrowing in distrust. "Really? You don't really think you can run away from this, do you?"
"I won't run," Amar said solemnly, his voice dropping an octave. "I promise, in the name of God, I will answer your question in the best detail it can possibly be."
Haya searched his brother's face in the dim light, looking for any sign of a trap. "Promise?"
"Yes," Amar replied. "I promise."
Haya swallowed hard, steeling himself. "Fine. Let me hear your question."
Amar took a slow step forward, the space between them turning freezing cold. "If you got the chance to be reborn, would you accept it... even if your entire memory was the price you had to pay?"
Haya blinked, thrown completely off balance. "What's with that kind of question?!"
"But if your only choice was to accept it," Amar continued, ignoring the interruption, his voice trembling with a terrifying, hidden grief, "would you think that you've been blessed... or would you think you've been cursed?"
Haya stood paralyzed, his mind spinning.
"Tell me, Haya. Do you really think forgetting is a curse?" Amar whispered, his voice dangerously close to breaking as he shook his head. He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to grip Haya's shoulder. This time, there was no anger in his touch, only a terrifying, suffocating desperation that felt like a desperate plea. "The answer that you are looking for... it's always been within you, Haya."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean!" Haya hissed through clenched teeth. He violently shook Amar's heavy hand off his shoulder, stepping back. "My head is aching, Amar! I've been seeing countless hallucinations! Am I living an absolute lie every single second I breathe?!"
"If you dig up what's buried out there all at once, it won't just destroy your mind," Amar warned, his eyes wide, flashing with a chilling, absolute certainty that cut straight through the dark night. He leaned in close, his jaw tight, delivering the final, crushing blow straight to Haya's chest. "It will kill Mom, Haya. Her heart cannot physically survive you not being here anymore. If you love her, if you have any decency left in your soul... please, at least don't treat her as an enemy."
Amar turned around without waiting for a reply. His heavy boots retreated back down the gravel path toward the house, leaving Haya entirely alone in the darkness.
Haya stood rooted to the spot, his brain completely frozen, unable to process the cryptic riddle his brother had bestowed upon him. But as the sound of Amar's footsteps faded, Haya's eyes drifted slowly toward the dark ditch by the side of the house, where the unexpected clue—the heavy plastic police folder—lay waiting for him .