And then, the voice again. Long forgotten: "You must hold on to it. Never let it go."
“Never let it go," her mind echoed. "No matter what happens… even if you fall, you must never let it go. You must get up and move… continue to move…" the voice continued
"Continue to move…" Again, her thoughts echoed.
"…Until you reach the very end. Someone will be there, waiting. Only then can you hand it over."
"The very end… but who is at the end? How would I know?"
There were silence She opened her eyes. Stood. Walked into the living room.
Tick, tick, tick—the clock filled the silence.
“Damn. Why can’t I fall asleep?” She slid open the balcony door and sat on the floor her sanctuary. The balcony garden had always brought her joy. Planned with intention. Every plant in its rightful place. No flowers. She didn’t like flowers. Only leaves. Shapes. Textures.
People often found that odd “But flowers are beautiful!” they’d insist. But to her, they were loud. Demanding attention with their bursts of colour and scent, only to wither days later. She preferred plants green, silent, enduring. They grew steadily, without drama. They offered form, texture, patience. You had to sit with them, pay attention to see their quiet transformations. Flowers celebrated moments plants marked time. To her, they were like quiet sentinels always present, always growing, even in silence.
They didn’t need to be noticed. Like her, they asked for nothing but space to exist. Perhaps that’s why she placed them around her like a fortress not to block the world out, but to hold her in. A living embrace. Not decoration, but communion.
Here, surrounded by her green companions, she could breathe. In their silent presence, she found something rare: permission to be invisible. To disappear without explanation. Especially at night, when the world grew quiet but her thoughts grew loud this was where she came to untangle them. The rustling leaves, the cool tiles beneath her legs, the distant hum of traffic they didn’t ask her to be anything.
Out there, she was a mother, a wife, a daughter, always seen, always needed. But here? She simply was. The plants didn’t interrupt, didn’t demand. They bore witness, gently. In the hush of leaves and wind, she could let the weight slip off her shoulders, if only for a little while. She smiled, remembering how her disappearing act used to puzzle her husband.
A few days ago, she had done it again—slipping away into the darkness of the balcony, her usual refuge. She didn’t turn on the light. She never did. The shadows made her feel safe, and the plants, like old friends, embraced her in their hush. She sat cross-legged on the floor, back pressed against the wall, her breathing in rhythm with the wind swaying the leaves.
Then, she heard the familiar sound: the soft shhhk of the sliding door. He appeared, head peeking out, eyes squinting into the dim space. She saw him scan the balcony—left, right—his brows gently furrowed. She didn’t say a word. Just watched. It amused her, this game of unintentional hide-and-seek. To her, she was plainly visible, part of the garden. But to him, it was as if she had vanished into the night.
He stood there for a moment longer, puzzled, then quietly slid the door shut again. She smiled to herself then, the way she smiled now. There was something oddly comforting about not being found—not because she was lost, but because she had blended so well into the peace she had created for herself. It wasn’t escape. It was presence, just not the kind that needed to be seen. An hour later, she rose from the balcony floor, legs slightly numb, back aching from stillness.
She slid the door open gently and stepped into the bedroom. He was already asleep, lying on his side, soft snores rising and falling like waves. She lay beside him, careful not to wake him. The bed was warm from his body. Familiar. Safe. But then, as if sensing her presence in his sleep, he stirred turned toward her.
“Where did you go?” he murmured, voice thick with drowsiness.
“At the balcony,” she whispered.
“I looked. I didn’t see you.”
“I was sitting on the floor. You didn’t see me?” He was quiet for a moment.
“No, dear. I saw… a plant. One I’ve never seen before. A new one? When did you get it?” She blinked.
“New plant?” The words hung in the air, strange and uncertain.
There was no new plant. She would have known she had memorized every curve, every stem. Her garden was her own creation, precise and deliberate. No strangers grew there. But she didn’t question it aloud.
She simply said, “Well… I must have been home inside, right? You locked the doors. Everything was shut from the inside” She paused, then added softly, “So how could I be outside? I’m here now.” He exhaled a sleepy laugh.
“Why were you hiding then?”
“I wasn’t hiding.” She touched his cheek gently.
“Why were you looking for me?”
“To come to bed, that’s all.” And with that, he pulled her into his arms. Held her close. His warmth spread through her like a slow wave. She let herself sink into the embrace, though her mind still lingered on his words. A new plant?
A thought crossed her mind—quiet, fleeting: What did he see out there? But she let it go. For now. Wrapped in his arms, she closed her eyes. And the garden, too, kept its secrets.
But tonight felt different. As usual she sat cross-legged on the balcony floor, her back to the wall, her mind drifted far back to her kampung. She was a child again, hidden behind thick vegetation near her house, tucked away in her favourite solitary corner. The memory wrapped itself around her like a familiar shawl. And then, the voices came again clearer now. Not just in her mind, but in her ears. Old voices. Forgotten shouts.
Suddenly, she was running again. Not here. Back then. School days. Hot Saturday afternoon. It was the 8 x 400 metre relay—an inter-school event. Every Saturday, she’d show up to support the team, never to run. Just to cheer. But that day, things changed. Tamilarasi—the fierce, fast-talking Indian girl and team captain—had spotted her in the crowd. Came rushing. Urgent. Breathless.
"You need to run for us!" she exclaimed.
"Me? Run? No, no… I’m just here to support."
“We’re one runner short. If we don’t fill the slot, we’re out of the race. You’re the only one here now. Please.”
“I’ve never run. And 400 meters? That’s... far.”
“It’s okay. You’ll be the fifth runner. We’ve got our strongest runners for the first four and the last three. We’ll catch up. You just need to run your heart out and pass the baton. That’s it.”
“I can’t…” she protested, shrinking back.
“You must. We need you. You don’t want us to be disqualified, right?” She hesitated. Swallowed hard. Looked at the hopeful, desperate faces around her.
“…Alright,” she finally said. Cheers erupted. The team huddled together, bubbling with relief and adrenaline. When her turn came, she stood at the lane, nerves buzzing, hands slightly shaking. She saw the fourth runner approach baton outstretched. She grabbed it and she ran.
And there, along the inside of the track, ran Tamilarasi barefoot and shouting, as if she were the wind itself: “Go! Go! Run! Don’t give up! Never give up!” Her legs burned. Her chest tightened. The world blurred. But she didn’t stop. She ran like the ground itself might fall behind her. By the time she passed the baton to the sixth runner, the team had gone from third to second place. They finished second that day. A victory, hard-won.
The entire team swarmed her hugging, shouting, celebrating. They pulled her into their circle. Lifted her, cheered her name. She had been their accidental runner. But after that, she was one of them. This time, the voice was louder. Firmer. It left no room for doubt. It echoed like a command carried on the wind. "You must hold on to it… Never let it go."
"Never let it go..." her mind repeat "No matter what happens, even if you fall, get up and continue. You must never give up… until the very end. Someone will be waiting. Only then can you hand it over."
"To the end… who is at the end? How will I know?" her mind repeat again. Silence.
And then, in her mind’s eye She was walking. Through familiar earth. Past thick undergrowth. To the place behind her kampung house where she used to hide. The bushes she had once pushed aside as a child now seemed heavier, older. But she pushed through anyway. And there he was. A man. Tall. Slim. A white beard that flowed like river mist. Long hair tied loosely.
He wore black—a uniform not unfamiliar. A silat master. Or something older. He stood right where she used to sit. As if he had always been there. Waiting. “sit” he instructed and point to the spot right infront of him She came forward and sit infront of him facing outward. Not out of fear, but reverence. Then, without being told, she sat. Cross-legged. Silent.
Her guru’s words returned: “Do as you’re told. Especially in the presence of the Ancient One.”
He stepped forward. In his hands, a clay pot rough, earthen, and ancient. Without a word, he tilted it. Cold water poured over her head. She gasped inwardly, but did not move. It soaked her hair, her shoulders, her breath. But she stayed still. A voice inside her whispered: Don’t move. Don’t look up. Then, his voice—not booming, but absolute: "It is done."
"From now on, you shall be known as...You shall carry my name, along with the one already given to you. You may rise now… and go home. Walk straight. Do not look back." Were his instructions.
She wanted to speak, but no words came. Only silence. She turned around but did not looked up, bowed. Slowly and touched his feet. Turned around and walked out. She did not look back.
When her eyes opened again, she was no longer outside. She was lying on the daybed in the study. The balcony door was shut. Not locked. The room was dim, touched by the pale blue of early dawn. The air was still. Her clothes were damp. Had she fallen asleep in the garden? Had she dreamt it all? She sat up, dazed.
Looked around. Everything was familiar—yet something within her had changed. The clock read nearly 6 a.m. Her husband would be up soon. She rose, quietly, and began to prepare breakfast as she always did. The eggs, the toast, the rhythm of routine offered a brief comfort.
But the silence held weight. A strange stillness had entered the house. Almost 0700 a.m. She was having breakfast with her husband when the phone ring. She paused. Picked it up.
Her stepmother’s voice trembled on the other end. Sobbing. Only one word reached her. Clear. Heavy. Final.
“He’s gone, this morning. At 6 a.m.”
