The night grew steadily colder, and the rhythmic ticking of the table clock became unnervingly clear in the silence. Haya sat at his desk for hours, the low-wattage table lamp casting long, distorted shadows against his bedroom wall. Every time he closed his eyes, the typed words from the police file burned violently behind his eyelids. Even though he had managed to get some sleep earlier in the evening, he couldn't wait any longer.
The clock hands pointed to exactly 2:30 AM.
I have to force myself to get a little more rest, and then go out at dawn without anyone noticing, he resolved internally. Slipping beneath the sheets of his cold but cozy bed, he managed to drift into a light, restless slumber.
A few hours later, he was jolted awake by the distant, throaty roar of a car engine. He lay perfectly still, listening as the sound faded down the gravel driveway. It was the familiar cue that his mother was already on her way to open her store for the morning.
The coast was clear.
Just as the first faint, bruised violet of dawn began to bleed into the eastern sky over Tanjung Karang, Haya quietly slipped out of his room. He carried his black canvas backpack, the heavy plastic file folder safely zipped inside. The floorboards groaned slightly beneath his weight, but the rest of the house remained dead quiet. Amar's bedroom door was firmly shut, and from the master bedroom at the end of the corridor, there was only the heavy, rhythmic silence of an exhausted household.
He didn't wear his school uniform. Instead, he pulled on a dark, faded hoodie and old cargo pants. He bypassed the kitchen entirely—not wanting to look at the water dispenser or the dining table that had anchored his mother's shadows hours prior—and slipped through the front door, locking it behind him with a practiced, microscopic slowness.
The morning air was freezing, thick with a dense, low-hanging mist that rolled off the vast marshlands of the surrounding paddy fields, swirling heavily around the thick trunk of the backyard durian tree. Haya walked down the gravel driveway, his sneakers crunching softly, and mounted his old, rusted bicycle. He had intentionally avoided using his motorcycle, terrified that the sudden, loud kickstart of the engine would immediately wake Amar and make him suspicious.
The truth was, Haya didn't actually know where Wak Rembo lived yet. But with no other choice, he simply pointed his bicycle toward the distant, obscured direction of Bukit Tajam and began to pedal. He had no idea who to ask for exact directions at this hour. His only bet was to cross paths with early-rising villagers who were either on their way to buy breakfast or heading out to check on their fields. Everyone in the village had to know the old forest ranger's house.
"Hey, Haya! What's up?!"
Haya, deep in his own turbulent thoughts, hadn't been paying attention to his surroundings. He flinched as a motorcycle pulled up smoothly on his left side.
"Woah! Aqmar!" Haya gasped, visibly shocked.
It was Aqmar, one of his close friends from high school, wearing a light jacket against the morning chill.
"What am I doing? Man, I'm just going to buy some roti canai," Aqmar chuckled, glancing at Haya's casual clothes. "Where are you heading off to?"
"I don't know the exact way, actually," Haya admitted, seizing the opportunity. "Do you know where Wak Rembo lives?"
"Ooo, you want to go to Wak Rembo's house, eh?" Aqmar scratched his chin, revving his engine lightly. "If I'm not wrong, his house is right near the base of Bukit Tajam. But... I don't know the exact junction. Ah! I remember now. It's an old, traditional wooden house. His roof has those dramatic, sweeping points that look like buffalo horns."
"Really?" Haya asked, a mental image forming.
"Yeah. Sorry, eh? I didn't help much, right?"
"No, no, that helps a lot. Thanks a lot, Aqmar!"
"Alright, be careful on your way, Haya!"
"Yeah, I'll be on my way. Thanks."
As they parted ways, Haya offered a final wave, grateful for the stroke of luck. Very few people had a reason to visit the old ranger's house. It sat on the absolute periphery of the village grid, right where the neat, cultivated rows of the plant nurseries ended and the chaotic, untamed wall of the forest reserve began. It was a dwelling built on the border of two worlds.
As Haya pedaled through the waking village, his legs began to ache, but the frantic rhythm of his heart pushed him forward. The thick mist clung to his eyelashes. To his right, the jagged outline of Bukit Tajam began to pierce through the morning fog like a row of broken teeth. Looking at the mountain now made a cold sweat break out across his neck. His grip tightened on the handlebars until his knuckles turned white. What really happened to me up there?
Twenty minutes later, he found himself on a isolated, single-lane road leading straight toward the base of the mountain, the flanking landscape dominated by dense palm oil plantations.
His house is near the mountain, with a pointing roof... Haya repeated Aqmar's words like a mantra.
As Haya pumped his pedals, a dramatic, sweeping roofline—just like his friend had described—slowly materialized in his vision, gradually unveiling itself from behind the thick, overhanging palm fronds.
Is that Wak Rembo's house?
It had to be.
The gravel path quickly dissolved into a narrow, mud-slicked track choked by overhanging ferns. Wak Rembo's house fully materialized through the gray fog. It was an old wooden structure elevated on sturdy timber stilts, weathered by decades of harsh monsoon seasons. The dark wood was deeply stained by green moss, and the compound was surrounded by a strange, meticulous collection of jungle plants—wild orchids, medicinal roots, and rows of dried herbs hanging from the porch rafters.
The air here smelled entirely different. It lacked the salty breeze of the nearby strait; instead, it smelled heavily of crushed damp leaves, woodsmoke, and old, undisturbed earth.
Haya parked his bicycle against a massive, moss-covered boulder at the edge of the clearing. As he walked toward the wooden steps leading up to the porch, he noticed a faint, warm light glowing from a small window. Someone was awake.
Before his foot could even touch the bottom step, the creaky wooden front door swung open.
An old man stepped out onto the porch, a steaming enamel mug of black coffee held in his calloused hands. Hadi bin Rahmat—Wak Rembo—looked exactly like a man who spent more time listening to the trees than to people. His hair was a stark, wild white, cropped close to his scalp, and his face was a deeply lined map of sun exposure and windburn. He wore a plain, simple white shirt.
Despite being in his early sixties, his shoulders were broad, and his dark eyes were uncomfortably sharp. They locked onto Haya instantly. Wak Rembo didn't look surprised to see a teenager at his doorstep at dawn. He stood at the top of the stairs, the steam from his coffee rising into the cold morning air, watching the boy step out of the fog.
"You're early. What do you want, young boy?" the old man asked. His voice was a deep, gravelly rasp, sounding like stones grinding together at the bottom of a riverbed. "The birds haven't even finished their morning prayers yet."
Haya stopped at the base of the stairs, his hands buried deep inside his hoodie pockets, his fingers tightly curled around the straps of his backpack. "Sorry to interrupt your morning, Wak, but I have something important to ask."
The old man tilted his head slightly. "Who are you, if I may ask?"
"Ooh... I'm Haya. The son of Cik Wiyah." Haya used his mother's village nickname, knowing it carried weight.
"Ooo... Wiyah's son..."
Wak Rembo took a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee. His eyes drifted down to the black canvas bag slung over Haya's shoulder. A subtle, almost imperceptible shift occurred in the old man's expression—a tightening around the corners of his mouth, a sudden stillness in his posture. He recognized the distinct shape of what was inside.
"The fog is bad for the lungs this morning," Wak Rembo murmured, turning back toward the open door. "Come up. Leave your shoes on the deck."
Haya climbed the wooden steps, the timber creaking beneath his weight. He slipped off his sneakers and stepped inside. The interior of the house was sparse, dominated by old maps pinned to the walls, hand-carved walking sticks resting in the corners, and the heavy, sweet scent of burning gaharu (agarwood) incense. There was no television, no modern distractions. Just a low wooden table in the center of the floor with two woven floor mats.
Wak Rembo set his mug down on the table and motioned for Haya to sit. Haya didn't sit immediately. Instead, he reached behind his back, unzipped his bag, and pulled out the transparent plastic folder. He dropped it onto the low table with a sharp, echoing slap.
Under the dim light of the single hanging bulb, the jagged, shredded fragments of paper stuck in the binder rings were glaringly obvious.
"I found this while cleaning out our family shed," Haya lied, his voice trembling with a volatile mix of anxiety and desperation. "I want to ask... who was that twelve-year-old boy who went missing on Bukit Tajam?"
Haya leaned forward, placing both hands firmly on the wooden table, forcing the old ranger to look at him. "This police report shows that the story is real, right? Why haven't I ever heard of it?"
Wak Rembo looked down at the file. He didn't touch it. He didn't reach out to slide the documents out or inspect the shredded edges. He simply stared at the blue crest of the Royal Malaysia Police, his expression an unreadable wall of absolute stoicism built over years of keeping village secrets.
The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating, punctuated only by the distant, rhythmic crowing of a neighbor's rooster through the fog.
Slowly, Wak Rembo sank down onto his woven mat, his old knees popping with a dry sound. He picked up his coffee mug again, cradling the warmth between his rough palms. He looked up at Haya, his dark eyes reflecting the amber glow of the agarwood incense.
"Sit down, boy," Wak Rembo said softly.
"Okay," Haya replied, deliberately softening his tone. He was trying to show as much respect and consideration as possible, terrified that if he showed any arrogance, the old man would throw him out and he would leave empty-handed. "So... Wak, I really want to know the truth about it."
"Well, it's been a while since anyone has ever asked me about this story," the old man murmured, blowing gently on his coffee. He looked up sharply. "But... is that really what you want to ask?"
Haya swallowed hard. "Yes... s-sir."
"Then there is nothing else for me to tell," Wak Rembo said calmly. "The report already records all the details of what you're asking about, boy."
"Are you sure?" Haya pressed, pointing a finger at the binder. "But there are some pages completely gone!"
Wak Rembo feigned mild surprise, shifting his gaze. "Really? Let me see."
The old ranger took the folder, slowly flipping through the remaining operational logs, his weathered fingers trailing over the empty plastic rings. "Ahhh... I see. So that is why you are asking about this."
"Yes, Wak... can I know regarding that matter? Please."
"I'm not sure if I can tell you about that, hmm...?" Wak Rembo trailed off, testing him.
"Please, Wak. I'll help you with anything around here. Anything you need, if you just tell me." Haya's chest heaved as he stared across the small table at the man who had ultimately saved that boy from a devastating end six years ago.
Wak Rembo reached out, his thick, scarred thumb brushing over the plastic cover of the police report.
"Your mother didn't hide this from you out of malice, Haya," Wak Rembo said, his voice finally softening into a somber, sorrowful tone.
The old man leaned in, his gaze locking onto Haya's with terrifying clarity.
"You look at this report and you think you found a missing puzzle piece. You think it's a victory." Wak Rembo shook his head slowly. "But truly, it really wasn't."
Wak Rembo reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a small, old brass compass, placing it gently on top of the police file. The needle spun erratically, refusing to settle on North, vibrating violently under the influence of something unseen.
"You want the truth?" Wak Rembo whispered, the morning fog pressing hard against the window panes behind him. "Yes, Haya. That missing boy... was you."
An electric jolt of adrenaline shot through Haya's veins. He was filled with an explosive excitement at finally hearing the confirmation out loud. He leaned forward, about to fire off his next burning question. "Really?! Then why did—"
"And...!" Wak Rembo interrupted sharply, raising a single, unyielding hand to cut him off. "That is all the things that I could tell you."
"But, Wak! There's more—"
"Maybe you can start to go back home now," the old man said, his tone shifting into a firm dismissal as he gestured toward the door. "They will get suspicious if you are missing from the house, right?"
Haya's mouth hung open slightly. "Huh...!"
He realized the interview was over. Forcing down his frustration, Haya forced a polite nod. "Alright... thanks for having me, Wak."
"Okay. Be careful on your way back."
Haya stood up, stepped forward, and performed a respectful Salam, bowing his head to press his forehead against the old man's calloused hand. Wak Rembo remained seated, accepting the gesture in heavy silence. Haya turned, grabbed his sneakers, and left the house.
A few moments later, the squeak of Haya's bicycle pedals echoed as he began the journey back through the palm oil plantation.
Up on the porch, Wak Rembo stood up slowly. He walked over to the small wooden window, pulling back the faded curtain to watch the boy's retreating figure disappear into the morning mist.
A ghost of a smile touched his weathered lips, quickly replaced by a profound gravity. He spoke softly to the empty room.
"What an easy-to-read boy. Growing up healthy, too." He paused for a few seconds, his eyes tracking the edge of Bukit Tajam in the distance. "But... you're starting to remember, aren't you? Boy."