It was a hot week in Penang. The ceiling fan stirred in an uneven rhythm emitting a low, buzzing hum. Occasionally, a slow breeze pushed through the window, rustling the curtain.
A week ago, my cat passed away. Two days later, a friend got married surrounded by close friends. We often go through our feelings without understanding them clearly.
The night before was unsettling, gathered at a popular spot known for its wild boar satay. The table we chose seemed to swallow us whole, sinking uncomfortably into the ground. A friend felt uneasy, so I decided to swap seats with her, hoping to ward off any bad energy.
Now, I lie in this old bed, my stomach in knots from something deep-rooted and unsettling.
Was it the spirit? Was it the food?
Perhaps both.
What lingers in my mind, however, is not the sickness, the unstable ground, or even the taste of the satay. It is the curtain—the way it moved slowly, deliberately, as if it had always been waiting for me to notice.
A mundane sight, easily ignored, yet it wove itself into my memory.
Years later, I still see it. Strange how the smallest things can linger long after everything else fades away.
