The next morning was silent.
The rain had stopped.
Putih made tea. He felt heavy. Numb.
When Bawang Merah came downstairs, he didn't speak.
Neither did she.
The newspaper was on the table. The front page was folded open to a small story:
"Local Psychiatrist Dies in Apparent Suicide"
Dr. Surya.
Putih stared at it for a long time.
Then he got up, walked to the sink, and threw up.
The front door creaked open again.
Only this time, it didn't swing.
It stayed still.
Open. Waiting.
Jahe stood in the hallway.
He looked older somehow. Sharper.
"You remember now," he said.
"I remember the crash," Putih said. "I remember the scream."
Jahe nodded. "And you remember what you did."
Putih closed his eyes.
He'd been the one driving. Speeding. Laughing at some stupid joke. Not seeing the turn.
He'd killed his friend.
Jahe had reached out to him in the wreckage.
And Putih had let go.
Bawang Merah found him in the living room hours later.
The TV was on. Static.
Putih sat on the floor, smiling faintly.
"Is he here?" she asked.
He nodded.
She sat beside him.
"I see him too sometimes," she whispered. "In dreams."
"Not dreams," Putih said. "They're memories. But memories lie."
She looked at him carefully. "Do you still want to see him?"
Putih turned.
Jahe stood in the hallway. Watching. Smiling. Hands in his pockets.
Putih didn't answer.
Because this time… he wasn't sure.