He said he would come at 10 a.m. She knew the landlord well enough to believe he would be punctual. Noorie glanced at her watch. Ten more minutes. She stood up, took a slow breath, and began one final walk through the rooms of the office.
The walls were freshly painted, masking the scars of the past few months—marks, dents, scratches. She had spent two full days on it. She could’ve paid someone, sure. But she didn’t.
She had wanted to do it herself. There was something therapeutic about rolling paint over everything, layer by layer, erasing the chaos. Closure, maybe. As per the tenancy contract, she was obligated to return the office in its original condition. She would hand the keys over personally, settle the JB office then walk away for good. She is free.
Then to book the bus heading up north where she can disappear for awhile. Her bags packed. No forwarding address. Just time away. She hadn’t told anyone where she was going. They didn’t need to know. She needed space to think, to breathe, to reflect on what had just happened. What had been lost. What couldn’t be saved. She felt like a failure.
And she needed time to reconcile with that feeling. Could I have done it differently? Could I have saved the company? When the crisis began, she and Manisah had stepped in—not out of obligation, but because their father had asked. It was a family effort.
A mission to salvage what they could. They injected funds from their own savings to pay off pressing debts. They knocked on doors, met potential buyers, and even approached the Ministry of Trade and Industry hoping for financial aid. But it was already too late.
Trying to save the company had been like bailing water from a sinking ship. No matter how hard they tried, the damage was done. They had intentionally avoided going to any Malay organizations for help. The community was too small. Word would spread quickly. And once that happened, there would be no mercy.
Everyone would know Johan’s name. Everyone would talk. Gossip spreads faster than facts. The letters threatening legal action kept arriving, but there was little anyone could do. There were no contracts, no black-and-white deals to prove any wrongdoing.
Still, Johan’s name was on everything. He was the founder. The face of the magazine. And they—the sisters—were now just the clean-up crew. Then Manisah left. Her husband had been seconded to the U.S. for two years, and she had to go.
Noorie understood, but it felt like the ground beneath her shifted. Suddenly she was alone. Alone with the burden, the questions, the silence. Everyone began looking to her for answers—for direction. But she was never the one who led. That had always been Manisah’s role. They were born exactly a year apart. Practically twins.
Noorie had always been the quieter one, happy to be second-in-command. She never needed to lead. Until now. The faces of the young fans haunted her. The magazine had built a loyal following. Energetic, hopeful youth who believed in what the magazine stood for.
“Is it true, Kak? You’re going to close the company?” Azman had asked recently—one of the cover boys. He had been a finalist in their “Cover Boy and Cover Girl of the Year” contest, which was supposed to be held at Sentosa. The biggest event of the year.
Now, it would never happen. That conversation stayed with her. She had tried to make sense of everything. She kept replaying it all—particularly Johan’s return that day with a briefcase full of cash. That was when her instincts flared.
Something wasn’t right. Suddenly, there was too much money—new cars, new furniture, endless spending. He told them business was booming. Advertising was strong. Subscriptions were up. He had launched a second magazine, this time for women, and had even opened a branch in Johor. Both magazines were now circulating in Malaysia.
Everything sounded perfect. The family wanted to believe him. They heard his ads on the radio, mostly on Malay stations. He introduced them to account managers from the radio network—people who praised him endlessly. The story was airtight. Everyone believed him. Everyone except Noorie.
She listened, but with a sceptic’s ear. Something didn’t add up. She had been in the publishing house before, shortly after returning from the UK. She saw the cracks. She left soon after, using nursing as an excuse. But it wasn’t an excuse. It was the truth. She had trained as a nurse. She was a nurse. That was her life force. That was where she belonged. And maybe now, finally, it was time to go back to it.
Few months ago...“Kak, I wanted to talk to you about something. An investment plan,” Rosnah said one evening at the East Coast chalet. The family had gathered there for a weekend retreat, meant to be a time of rest and bonding.
Noorie turned to her, curious. “What about?”
“I already spoke to Dad,” Rosnah continued. “But he asked me to speak with you instead.” Noorie frowned slightly, now alert.
“This is a good investment, Kak,” Rosnah said eagerly, trying her best to sound persuasive. “They promise 100% returns. Double—sometimes more than double.” Noorie listened in silence, observing not just Rosnah’s words, but her tone, her body language.
“Our neighbour is in it too,” Rosnah added quickly. “You should see their house now—renovated top to bottom. Beautiful, really. They just bought a new car. And last year, they even went to Mecca for the second time.” Noorie raised her hand.
“Question.” Rosnah blinked. “Is there any legal document to prove that I gave this said amount to you—or whoever is managing this? Any formal agreement that guarantees this 100% return?” Rosnah hesitated, then shook her head.
“No legal documents. It’s all based on trust. That’s why we only open it to close friends and family.”
“Hmmm,” Noorie exhaled. “That’s exactly where the risk is. No legal binding means anyone can take the money and vanish. Then what? How do I get it back?”
"That will never happen,” Rosnah said, brushing off the concern. “Everyone I know has been paid.”
“And what makes you so sure?” Noorie asked, eyes narrowing. “Friends stay friends until money gets involved. Then everything changes.” Rosnah was quiet for a second, then tried again.
“So far, no problems. I just thought… maybe Dad could invest too. Double his savings, you know?”
“No,” Noorie said sharply. “Leave Dad out of it.” Rosnah opened her mouth, but Noorie cut her off.
“If you want to get involved, that’s your choice. But don’t pull Dad in. I don’t trust this scheme. It’s too risky. That money—his savings and retirement fund—that’s his security. His life’s work. I won’t allow it to be thrown into something this uncertain.”
“Maybe just a small amount?” Rosnah pressed. “Ten thousand, twenty thousand? He still has some in the bank.”
“Rosnah—no.” Noorie’s voice was low, final. “Ten or twenty thousand might sound like a small sum to you, but to us, it’s significant. We can’t afford to lose that kind of money. I’d rather he put it in fixed deposits. Or better yet, put it as a down payment for the house he’s been eyeing in Johor.”
The conversation ended there. Rosnah didn’t bring it up again. But the incident stayed with Noorie. Since Johan’s disappearance, the family had been caught in a storm of half-truths and scattered rumours. Stories surfaced—bits and pieces, none fully confirmed. Accusations. Whispered anger. Some claimed Johan had taken their money, that he had been involved in get-rich-quick schemes.
Some even said he ran the operation. People came to the house—strangers, ex-clients, acquaintances—demanding answers. Some came shouting. Some crying. Some with veiled threats. Her father received them all with calm dignity, offering them tea and listening patiently.
But Noorie saw what it was doing to him. He was heartbroken. Her mother had shut down entirely, retreating into silence. Noorie would come home and find her staring blankly at the walls, unmoving. Her father would sit by the window, watching the road, as if expecting Johan to walk up the driveway.
He tried to stay strong. But one night, she found him quietly crying. “Johan is still our son,” he said, his voice breaking. “What proof do these people really have? That it was Johan who took their money? What if someone else used his name? What if…” He didn’t finish the sentence.
Noorie didn’t know what to say. Guilt. Grief. Anger. They were all tangled together. Yes, Johan had made mistakes. But he wasn’t here to defend himself. And in the silence of his absence, everyone else was left to carry the blame.
The voices of two men speaking in Hokkien outside the door broke her train of thought. She glanced at her watch. 10 a.m. On the dot. As expected. The landlord entered, accompanied by another man—likely a contractor or relative.
He moved through the office with a practiced eye, inspecting each room without saying much. He checked the walls, glanced up at the ceiling, walked into the small kitchen, and then into the back where the toilet was.
“Whole office repainted?” he asked, switching to Hokkien.
“Yes,” she replied in Hokkien, matching his tone.
“You pay somebody to do it?”
“No. I did it myself. Is it okay?” He paused, eyebrows raised. For a moment he looked genuinely surprised. Then he nodded. “Good. All very good.”
She gave him a small smile, the first real one in days. Without another word, she reached into her bag and handed him the office keys. He took them silently. That was it. No long farewell. No need for explanations. The door was no longer hers to open.
Chpt 12 / 36
