The clinking of stainless-steel spoons against ceramic bowls had never sounded so hostile.
Downstairs, the dining table was staged with the deceptive warmth of a normal family dinner. A bowl of steaming chicken soup sat directly in the center, flanked by a plate of stir-fried mustard greens and a mountain of white rice. To anyone looking through the window, it was a picture of domestic quietude, a quiet rural family settling down after a long day. But to Haya, the air in the dining room felt like a compressed gas cylinder, slowly leaking into the enclosed space, waiting for a single spark to detonate.
He sat rigidly on his wooden stool, his freshly washed face still retaining the cool dampness of the bathroom tap. He had changed into a clean, oversized gray t-shirt, but the skin beneath it felt hypersensitive, as if the phantom grip of the pale hand on his wrist from his nightmare had left an invisible, freezing brand on his flesh.
Opposite him sat his mother. She was serving the rice, her movements mechanical, her eyes tracking the movement of her own hands with an intense, hollow focus that avoided looking at anything else. Beside her, Amar chewed his food with a slow, rhythmic deliberation, his dark jaw tightly clenched between every single bite. Inari sat at the far end of the plastic tablecloth, her phone flipped face-down—a rare concession that spoke volumes about the heavy authority anchoring the room.
Haya picked up his spoon, but he didn't scoop any food. He merely pushed a grain of rice across his plate, watching it slide through the glare of the fluorescent ceiling light.
The nightmare was still pulsing behind his retinas. The sheer, physical weight of seeing his own face lying dead on the floorboards was a horror he couldn't shake. It hadn't been a dream. The raw symmetry of the landscape, the specific coldness of the mud, the terrifying strength of that slender wrist—it was too mathematically precise to be a product of a fevered imagination. It was a file that had been forcefully deleted from his hard drive, only for a corrupted copy to suddenly breach the system.
He looked up, his bloodshot eyes locking onto his mother's weathered face.
"Mom," Haya said softly.
The word was quiet, but it caused an instantaneous, microscopic shift across the table. Amar's spoon paused a millimeter above his bowl. Inari's shoulders tightened.
His mother didn't look up immediately. She finished scooping a portion of vegetables into Inari's plate before her eyes slowly drifted toward him. "Yes, Haya? Eat up. The soup is getting cold."
"What was I... before entering high school?" Haya began, keeping his voice carefully level, dropping the words like stealth mines into the quiet space. "Did anything happen back then?"
A sudden, sharp silence slammed down upon the room.
The transition was violent. His mother's hand, still holding the serving spoon, froze mid-air. Haya watched with predatory focus as a single drop of chicken broth slipped from the edge of the spoon, falling back into the bowl with a distinct, hollow plop. The color drained from her cheeks with terrifying speed, leaving her skin looking like old, damp parchment.
"Why are you asking about that?" Amar's voice cut through the air like a blade.
Haya shifted his gaze to his older brother. Amar had laid his spoon down against the ceramic with a sharp clack. His face was dark with anger, his eyes drilling into Haya with a terrifying intensity.
"I'm just curious, brother," Haya replied, his inner self growling at the defensive wall instantly throwing itself up. "Now that I'm eighteen, I realized I have absolutely no memory of ever going to the hill or even the beach. Even though I could easily go there by bicycle. Weird, right? Especially since we've lived here for what... more than a decade?"
"Haya, stop it,"Amar muttered.
While Inari wasn't looking at him. Her eyes were fixed entirely on her plate, her fingers turning white as she gripped her fork. The casual, annoyed sister from the morning was completely gone; she looked genuinely frightened, her jaw trembling as she tried to suppress a shudder.
"What's with you ?I'm only asking a question!" Haya pressed, his voice rising a fraction, his frustration finally fracturing his calm facade. "Now that I've realized it, it seems like I can't even remember my own childhood."
"Haya, stop it. Now isn't the right time to ask about that. We're all tired from work today,"Amar pleaded, his voice shaking.
"Even you, Inari?" Haya asked, his voice dripping with bitter sarcasm.
"I said, stop it!" Amar slammed his palm flat against the table.
The force of the blow rattled the bowls, causing the water glasses to vibrate violently.
Inari abruptly stood up, violently slamming her own hands against the table. "I'm going to bed!" she snapped, leaving her dishes untouched as she turned on her heel and stormed out of the dining room, her footsteps heavy as she fled upstairs.
Amar stood up next, his massive frame towering over the table, casting a long, aggressive shadow across Haya's lap. "You're being completely ridiculous! You sleep away the entire day, wake up with your head full of nonsense, and now this? She worked a ten-hour shift, Haya! Have some damn respect!"
"I'm just asking a question, Amar!" Haya shouted back, standing up to meet his brother's furious gaze. The height difference was still there, but the burning desperation in Haya's chest bridged the gap. "Why does a simple question about my childhood feel like a crime in this house?!"
Mom hadn't spoken a single word. The spoon had slipped from her numb fingers, clattering uselessly against the tabletop. Her hands were pressed flat against her lap, shaking so violently that her entire upper body rocked with the motion. Her eyes were wide, staring blankly at the center of the table, sweat rapidly welling at her temples before spilling down her wrinkled cheeks. She looked entirely untethered from reality, her breath coming in short, ragged, terrified gasps.
Then, forcing her face to turn toward her two sons who were locked in a shouting match, she used her trembling hands to support her weight, trying to keep her body from collapsing to the ground. Her will was entirely broken by Haya's questions, yet she forced her lips to curl upward, putting on a fragile, heartbreaking smile.
"Both of you... please don't fight," she whispered softly, her eyes pleading. "Please...?"
Amar hissed, letting out a heavy, defeated sigh. He looked at his exhausted mother, his anger morphing into deep guilt. Not wanting to worry her any further, he reluctantly sat back down, picking up his spoon and forcing himself to eat. "For now... just eat, Haya," he muttered, his chest still heaving.
Haya stood there, completely unsatisfied with the treatment he was receiving. He looked at his mother's forced smile, then at his brother's unyielding face. The confirmation was absolute. Their panic was an explicit confession.
He slowly shook his head.
"Haya!" Amar warned, trying to stop him from walking away.
"Let him be, Amar..." Mom whispered, gently placing a hand on Amar's arm, terrified of the explosive fight that would spark if they continued.
Without another word, Haya turned on his heel and strode out of the dining room. He didn't go back upstairs to his room. Instead, he marched straight toward the front door, snatched his black canvas backpack from the floor tiles where he had dropped it earlier, and stepped out onto the front porch, slamming the heavy wooden door behind him.
They weren't trying to protect him from the dangers outside. They were guarding a bird from leaving its nest.
The night air of Tanjung Karang hit him like a bucket of cold water.
It was past eight in the evening. The sky was an ink-black void, the stars completely choked out by the heavy, low-hanging clouds rolling in from the sea. The village was quiet, the distant roar of the ocean a faint, rhythmic murmur against the dark plains. The only sound accompanying his heavy breathing was the melancholy chorus of crickets singing in the wild grass.
Haya walked to the edge of the porch steps and collapsed onto the concrete, burying his face in his hands. His mind was spinning in a dark, inescapable loop.
They know, he thought, his chest tightening until it hurt to breathe. They all know exactly what happened. From the beach to the hill. There is a massive secret they are keeping away from me.
He let out a ragged breath, his hands dropping to his lap. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. The screen illuminated his face in a harsh, cold blue light. He opened his messaging app, his thumb hovering over the private group chat with his four friends. He wanted to type, wanted to ask if they remembered anything from eight years ago.
But his thumb froze.
No, his inner voice whispered, a chilling realization settling deep into his gut. If my own family is willing to lock me out of my own head,neither do they , right?
He shoved the phone back into his pocket, his jaw hardening. He couldn't trust human words anymore. The truth wasn't going to be found in a voluntary confession, but maybe, just maybe, there would be a clue they would accidentally slip. Even though there was only a small chance of that happening, he couldn't gamble on it. If he wanted to know why his family had rewritten his reality, he had to find the physical evidence himself.
He stood up, his eyes turning slowly toward the side of the house.
Behind the main residential structure lay the old wooden storage shed—a weathered, single-room building where his late father's old tools, broken furniture, and boxes of ancestral documents were kept under a layer of permanent dust. It was a place Mom rarely visited, claiming the damp air triggered her asthma.
If there was any trace of his childhood—any medical reports, old school files, or police documents—it would be buried there.
Haya stepped off the porch, his boots crunching softly against the gravel as he slunk into the shadows, heading toward the shed.