The night after the storm felt wrong.
Angkara Village had fallen quiet again, but it was not the peaceful silence Adam once knew. This silence had weight. It pressed against the walls like fog. It lingered in corners. Even the insects outside seemed cautious, as if the air itself was listening.
Adam lay on the thin mattress inside Lorna's home. The ceiling above him was made of wooden boards darkened with age. A faint draft slipped through the cracks and brushed his face. The hearth fire had burned down into glowing red pieces. Shadows crawled across the walls with every flicker.
He closed his eyes.
He tried to calm his breathing.
His mind refused to slow.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the square again.The storm. The kneeling. The fear in their eyes.
Not fear of the storm.Fear of him.
He turned on his side.
A week ago, Angkara had felt small and safe. A place where he could disappear into daily work. A place where no one asked questions that cut too deep.
Now it was no longer that place.
Now people watched him from doorways.Now they whispered when he passed.Now they waited.
Not for him as a man.For something they thought lived inside him.
He pressed his face into the pillow.
"I ask for nothing," he whispered into the fabric. "Nothing…"
Sleep did not answer him quickly.
When it finally came, it did not come kindly.
It came like falling.
He was no longer in Angkara.
He lay flat on his back.
The surface beneath him was smooth. Too smooth. Cold. Clean.
A low, steady sound filled the air.
"Beep.""Beep.""Beep."
Adam opened his eyes.
White ceiling.
Harsh lights.
The smell hit him next. Alcohol. Medicine. Clean water that had no warmth.
His chest tightened then he tried to move.
His arms felt heavy. His fingers would not answer.
Panic crept into his throat.
Then he heard a voice.
Soft, Low and Familiar.
He turned his eyes slowly toward the sound.
His mother sat beside his bed.
She wore the same faded shawl she always used when she prayed at home. The one with frayed edges from years of washing. Her hair was tied loosely behind her head, and her eyes looked tired. Not day tired. Bone tired.
She held a small Quran in her hands.
The cover was worn and he corners were bent.
It was the same one he remembered from home.
She was reciting.
Her voice filled the sterile room like warm air.
Each verse came steadily from her lips. Not rushed. Not loud. Gentle. Certain.
Adam felt something break open in his chest.
"Mom…" he whispered.
No sound came out.
He tried again.
"Mom."
Still nothing.
His heart began to pound.
He wanted to sit up.
He wanted to reach her.
He wanted her to look at him.
His mouth moved, but his voice did not.
She did not raise her eyes.
She continued reciting.
Her finger traced each line slowly.
Then her voice hesitated.
Just for a second.
She swallowed.
A tear slid down her face and fell onto the page.
She paused.
Adam's chest twisted.
He tried to scream.
He tried to cry out.
His throat locked tight.
His hands still would not move.
His body betrayed him.
She wiped her cheek quickly, as if ashamed of the tear.
Then she continued reciting.
Her voice shook, not much. Just enough.
Adam felt his chest burn.
He wanted to tell her he was here.
Alive. Thinking. Listening.
"But I'm here," he tried to say. "Mom, I'm here."
Nothing.
She did not hear him.
She did not see him.
The sound of her recitation slowly stretched.
The words melted.
The room faded to grey.
The ceiling blurred.
The beeping slowed.
Suddenly her face disappeared into shadow.
Adam try reached for her but then his vision collapsed.
He woke up from his sleep with a sharp breath.
His body jolted upright.
His chest heaved.
His hands shook.
His face was wet.
He pressed both palms over his mouth to stop the sound, but it escaped anyway. A broken sob. Sharp and sudden.
"Mom…" he whispered.
His voice cracked on the word.
His current reality has returned in pieces.
The wooden ceiling.
The fading embers.
The cool night air.
He was back.
Back in Angkara.
Back in the village.
Back in a world that was not his.
He sat there breathing heavily, his heart racing as if he had run a long distance.
Tears slid down his face again, slower this time.
This time, real.
The dream felt too solid to ignore.
It did not feel like memory.
It felt present.
As if it had happened moments ago, not years away.
He wiped his eyes with his sleeve and tried to calm himself.
Thoughts crashed into each other without order.
Was she real?
Was it truly her sitting beside a bed that held Adam's empty body?
Was she still reciting every day for a son who did not answer?
A sharp pain clenched his chest.
If she was alive, then she was suffering.
If she was alive, then she was waiting.
If she was alive, then she thought he was gone.
That thought tore through him.
Was he dead there?
Or was he lost between worlds?
Was this place punishment?
A test?
A detour?
Or the only place he had left?
Adam wrapped his arms around his knees and pressed his forehead to them.
"I am here," he whispered to the empty room. "I am still here…"
No one answered.
The hearth crackled softly.
A lonely sound.
He slowly slid from the mattress to the prayer mat beneath it.
His movements were stiff, as if his body weighed more than before.
He placed his palms on the mat and lowered his head.
He did not recite at first.
He simply rested there, his forehead against the woven fabric.
Then he began to pray.
Not beautifully.
Not carefully.
Not with calm words learned by heart.
He prayed as a child who could not hold his fear.
"Ya Allah…" he whispered. "Please… tell me…"
His voice shook.
"Is she okay?…"
No answer came.
He waited.
The wind whispered through the trees outside.
Nothing else.
He swallowed.
"Please… I need to know… she is alone…"
His fingers curled into the mat.
"I did not ask for magic… I did not ask for signs… I only ask for this…"
Silence.
His breath hitched.
"If she still breathes… if she still waits… then help her…"
His face pressed harder against the mat.
"Do not let her cry alone…"
Still nothing.
No warmth.
No voice.
No light.
Only night.
Adam slowly lifted his head.
His eyes burned.
His chest felt hollow.
"I will be patient," he whispered. The words sounded thin. "I will wait…"
The room did not respond.
He leaned back against the wall and stared at the darkness.
For the first time since arriving in this world, he did not feel chosen.
He felt small.
Not small like humble.
Small like forgotten.
He thought of his mother's voice.
The way she used to recite early in the morning.
The soft rhythm that once filled their house.
He remembered the smell of rice cooking.
The distant sound of motorcycles outside their home.
The squeak of the old fan in the corner.
His throat tightened.
All of it felt unreachable now.
Like a place that no longer existed.
He closed his eyes again.
He did not sleep.
He simply sat there until the darkness slowly thinned.
When dawn finally came, it came quietly.
Grey replaced black.
Birds began to stir.
The village shifted in its sleep.
Adam stood slowly and washed his face at the basin beside the house.
Cold water cleared the salt from his eyes, but not the ache.
When he looked at his reflection in the water, he barely recognized himself.
His face looked older.
Not in years.
In weight.
He dried his face and stepped outside.
Angkara Village still slept.
Smoke had not yet risen.
Doors remained closed.
The road lay empty.
He looked toward the forest.
Then toward the path that led beyond the hills.
Toward a world that perhaps still held his mother.
"I am here," he whispered again. To the wind. To the trees. To anyone who might hear.
No voice answered.
Only leaves stirred.
Adam straightened his shoulders.
Not because he felt strong.
Because he had no other direction to move.
He began preparing for the day.
Wood to cut.
Water to carry.
Life to perform.
Even with a heart still split in two.