CHAPTER 25 — BOOK III
Returning
The house in Vaucluse had learned how to hold quiet.
By late afternoon, light from the harbour slipped in at an angle that softened the edges of the rooms, catching on window frames and pale floorboards without insisting on attention. The day had not been planned around an occasion. There was no ceremony to prepare for, no audience to consider.
That was precisely why the room had been claimed early.
A dress hung from the wardrobe door, still sheathed in plastic. Shoes waited neatly by the bed. On the dresser, a small arrangement of brushes, clips, and compacts had been laid out with deliberate care. A speaker hummed low—music chosen for rhythm rather than mood.
Ganang stood behind Fayrani, already separating sections of her hair with practiced ease.
“Don’t move,” he said gently.
“I’m not moving,” Fayrani replied, immediately shifting.
Ganang smiled. “That was theoretical.”
She laughed and settled, eyes on her reflection. Sixteen had arrived without asking permission, and she was still learning how it felt to occupy herself fully. She trusted him. Everyone did.
Surihani hovered nearby, turning slowly in her dress to see how the fabric moved. Faryana sat cross-legged on the floor, lining up lip glosses with ceremonial precision, testing one on the back of her hand.
“Abang, this one or this one?” Faryana asked, holding up two shades.
Ganang glanced once. “The softer one.”
“Why?”
“You’ll thank me later.”
That was enough. She nodded and put the other away.
He worked without fuss. Pins slid into place. A curl was coaxed, released, then set again. His instructions were brief—chin up, eyes down, don’t blink yet—and his hands were steady, economical, never rushed.
Embong paused in the doorway.
He had meant to keep walking. Instead, he leaned lightly against the frame and watched.
Ganang finished Fayrani’s hair and stepped back, assessing the effect. He adjusted a strand near her ear, then nodded once.
“Good,” he said.
Fayrani leaned closer to the mirror. The girl looking back at her seemed older, more composed than she had expected. She touched her cheek carefully, then smiled.
“I look different.”
Ganang shook his head. “No. You look clearer.”
She smiled wider at that.
He turned next to Surihani, lifting her chin slightly, studying angles. “You don’t need much,” he said. “You already have drama.”
Surihani scoffed. “Rude.”
“It’s hereditary,” he replied mildly, reaching for a brush.
Faryana climbed onto the bed beside Fayrani. “Am I next?”
Ganang met her eyes in the mirror. “You’re always next.”
He worked through them one by one, redirecting restlessness with ease—stand here, sit there, hold this. The room obeyed him without noticing it had.
There was no performance in it. No explanation.
Just competence.
When he finished, the three of them stood together before the mirror, dresses aligned, hair set, faces bright with anticipation rather than nerves. Fayrani reached for her phone instinctively.
“Abang,” she said, angling the camera. “Come here.”
Ganang shook his head. “You’ll wrinkle something.”
She caught his wrist anyway and pulled him into frame. He leaned in just enough, smiling faintly.
The photo held them as they were—nothing exaggerated, nothing announced.
“All right,” Ganang said, stepping back. “Go. Before I start fixing things again.”
They gathered their bags and shoes, energy breaking loose now that preparation was done. At the door, Fayrani turned back.
“I’ll message you.”
“And when you get there,” Surihani added.
“And when you leave,” Faryana said.
Ganang nodded. “All of it.”
They were gone in a rush of movement and sound.
The room settled.
Ganang moved methodically, collecting pins from the bedspread, wiping the dresser, returning brushes to their case. He folded a discarded scarf and set it aside. The music clicked off.
Embong stepped inside then.
“You didn’t miss a thing,” he said.
Ganang closed the case. “That’s the idea.”
Embong looked around the room—order restored, traces of care still present if you knew where to look.
For the first time, he saw it clearly. Not just what Ganang did, but how he did it. The choosing. The steadiness. The way responsibility never narrowed him.
“You hungry?” Ganang asked.
Embong nodded.
They left the room as they always had—lights off, door gently closed—leaving behind a space that had held something important without needing to say so.
They left the room as they always had—lights off, door gently closed—leaving behind a space that had held something important without needing to say so.
Ganang did not stay long after that.
Later, Embong heard the front door ease open and shut again, the sound careful rather than secretive. By the time he passed the hallway, Ganang’s jacket was gone from the hook, the bench by the door empty except for a set of keys laid neatly in place.
Nothing about it asked to be noticed.
By the time they began to plan again, no one said the word recovered.
Life had resumed instead, which felt more honest.
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