Epilogue — Book II

EPILOGUE — BOOK II

 

What Remains

 

(Mid–late 2002, Sydney)

 

By the time winter loosened its grip, the house had settled into a shape that no longer required explanation.

 

Shoes gathered by the door in a pattern that made sense to everyone who lived there. A spare mug disappeared, then reappeared in the cupboard as if it had always belonged. The calendar on the fridge carried names written in different hands, none of them provisional.

 

Geoffrey Awan noticed the change when he stopped noticing it.

 

The question of how long he would stay had faded months earlier, dissolving not through decision but through habit. Plans were made that assumed his presence without checking first. Meals were adjusted. Errands were shared. His absence, when it occurred, was remarked upon.

 

One afternoon, a letter arrived from the school.

 

Delima Galang opened it at the kitchen bench, reading quickly, then again more carefully. She called out to Awan, who glanced over her shoulder. Neither commented.

 

Geoffrey waited, uncertain what the pause meant.

 

Delima handed him the letter. It was brief, administrative, unremarkable in every way except one. His name appeared as it had for months now, without parentheses or correction.

 

Geoffrey Awan.

 

He folded the letter and set it down.

 

No one marked the moment. No one needed to.

 

Later, Embong found him on the back steps, watching the light settle across the yard.

 

“You saw it,” Embong said.

 

“Yes.”

 

“And?”

 

Geoffrey considered the question. “It feels… finished.”

 

Embong smiled. “Good.”

 

They sat for a while without speaking. The city hummed beyond the fence, distant and persistent, no longer demanding their attention.

 

Inside, Awan spoke to Delima about plans for the following year—timetables, travel, small renovations that assumed continuity. Hijau Awan passed through the room, adding a comment, then correcting herself and laughing.

 

The world had not softened.

 

News still arrived sharp-edged. Language still misfired. People still mistook volume for certainty. None of that had changed.

 

What had changed was smaller and more durable.

 

Grief had not left Geoffrey. It had been given a place to rest. The weight he carried no longer shifted his balance. It had become part of his stance.

 

He stood, at last, without effort.

 

When the evening cooled, Delima called them in for dinner.

 

Geoffrey rose without thinking, following Embong inside.

 

The table was already set.

 

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