The game had gone better than she expected. It had been years since they played together, but somehow, the rhythm returned like it never left. They moved easily across the court — light on their feet, reading each other’s plays, finishing rallies with quiet understanding.
And the laughter — oh, the laughter. When she smashed the shuttlecock and he dived to return it, barely catching the edge — they both collapsed in the middle of the court, gasping, grinning. Breathless with joy. No scoreboard. No crowd.
Just the sound of their laughter echoing in the empty hall. She looked over at him, still lying on the floor, his eyes on the ceiling.
“We still make an awesome team.”
“We do,” he said, smiling.
For years after she walked away, Nonie didn’t touch her racket. Not once. It stayed under the bed, untouched. Out of sight — not forgotten, just… silenced. She told herself she was too busy. Work. Studies. Life. There was no time for games. But every so often, walking past a court, hearing the familiar thwack of shuttlecock meeting string — her body would remember.
Her stance would shift ever so slightly. Her breath would slow. Her fingers would twitch, aching for the grip of a racket. The sniper never really left. She had just gone quiet. Sometimes in her dreams, she was there again — on a court lit by a single overhead lamp. No crowd. No noise. Just her. And the game. She missed it. Not the applause. Not the competition.
She missed the clarity. The stillness before a shot. The strategy unfolding in silence. The way she could read an opponent’s weakness like a map. The sharp pleasure of a shuttle landing exactly where she meant it to. Every movement had meaning.
Every shot had purpose. She didn’t chase. She waited. Like a sniper, she didn’t waste bullets. And now, years later, holding the racket again she felt it. That familiar focus. That controlled breath. The sniper was back. Not to prove anything. Just… to return to who she was.
As soon as she entered the house, Nonie rushed into her room and threw her bag onto the bed. She went straight to the window and peered out. There he was standing a few meters away from the main bus stop, pretending to be casually waiting but she knew better.
She picked up the old binoculars from her desk and focused in. He was looking up. Right at her. How does he know I’m watching him? She smirked, reached for her torchlight, and flashed it twice, then a pause, then twice again.
Down below, he smiled. And waved then he replied with a hand signal. The hand signal : ”Operation Pontianak” That ridiculous move he made up when they were kids some strange half-salute, half-shadow puppet thing. She used to tease him about it, saying he looked like a confused traffic warden. She laughed. Still the same Poh Poh.
He remembered….
Years ago…
“Ssh! Keep quiet, will you? You’re asking too many questions,” she whispered, crouching behind the window ledge. “They’ll hear us.”
“Who are we waiting for at this time of night? And why are you holding a torchlight and binoculars?”
“To signal Abang Razali. Guan and his boys will be passing by soon on their way to the community center. The Chinese drama starts at 8 p.m., and they always get there first. They hog the TV room and refuse to let us change the channel.”
“So… what’s the plan?”
“See the big tree across the field?” she pointed. In the faint moonlight, the outline of several Malay boys crouching near the tree was visible. And then—something flapping. A white cloth, tied to a branch.
“Are they trying to scare Guan and the others?” asked Poh Poh
She grinned “Yesterday, on our way back from school, they purposely parked their German Shepherd across our usual shortcut. Scared the hell out of us. We had to take the long route. By the time we got home, they were already in the TV room.”
“So this is revenge?”
She turned, eyes gleaming. “It’s payback. Pontianak Time.”
Chpt 24 / 36
