He saw them.
The bright lights grazed the ship, so why can't anybody see them?
It's odd. These people will live not knowing what's up there. And I can't 'talk' about it, or else I get scolded. Am I grieving the loss of its name?
Malik stared out into the sky, as Zayne idly played with his fingers.
Samir, Cyrus, and Kamil cooked hibachi in front of the table, filling the air with wondrous spices. Metal clicked against metal as meat sizzled.
Malik leaned in the conversations between the men.
He noticed Cyrus telling an old sea story as they flipped the meat.
He caught fragments.
Words like "Forget," "Sea," "Shine" caught Malik's attention.
They snagged in his mind.
He stored them.
. . .
Meanwhile, Kaya and Amaya went into the kitchen to make soup.
They slid past Cyrus as he cut the meat in an unconventional way.
Malik peered closely.
Four cuts in the span of four seconds, when he normally did one cut in two.
Too precise. Too methodological.
There's more . . . I know there is.
. . .
Malik excused himself from his seat, wrote a note on a scrap of paper with the pen in his pocket, and left it on the table for Zayne to see.
Rocking dark waves rocked as Malik went down the hallway, passing his father's office, past the restroom, then glancing at the unlit corridor that led to everyone's rooms . . . and there it was.
The door.
An old friend.
The lights were off, yet the layout was burned in Malik's memory.
He carefully went down each step. From afar, it looked like an old toy left in the corner of a closet, lifeless. After all, rooms aren't give themselves light. People do. Memories do.
Walking . . . stepping . . . tip-toeing to the center, he took a sharp right and—
There it was.
The wooden-metal stairs creaked beneath him. The smooth metal was ambient, but the wood creaked like thunder. Malik cringed with each step, crawling toward the door again.
I'd always been drawn to this thing. Dad made it a secret since I was about seven or so . . .
A dim glow bled from its edges, reminiscent of blood. A spotlight in the void.
Mounted by it was a digital screen with a recorder. A faint green light blinked obediently.
It read bright text.
"Awaiting sentence prompt."
I've never taken a good look.
Compared to the other doors, its exaggerated appearance stood out . . . an outlier that was impossible to ignore.
Circling the frame, he noticed the bolts on each corner.
These aren't normal.
Inching to the bottom-right bolt, his finger grazed it. It twisted like a contortionist . Malik flinched back, smiling. He knew there was a way.
It's not a bolt.
A keyway.
Four of them.
Four spirals. Four turns. Moonlight traced the corners.
Each bolt was carved into a spiral helix, downward. Not meant to hold . . . meant to listen.
A sentence . . . and four keys.
One person alone can't open this.
And Dad wouldn't trust anybody to help him.
. . .
Malik stepped away, tapping the floor thoughtfully, and returned to the table.
Walking back, he saw Cyrus tapping his palm with his index finger.
Three taps.
A pause.
One more.
He sat back down next to Zayne, attentive.
Kaya and Amaya emerged from the kitchen holding bowls of soup. Amaya had a grin like a child promised dessert. Cyrus turned, holding metal tongs clasped around the steak. He tapped them once, then again, and twice more.
Four.
He laughed dryly. "You girls do know that soup was expired, right? Forgot to throw it out."
Amaya dumped her soup onto the floor. Kaya giggled silently.
"Hey! I just cleaned this floor!" Zayne cried from afar.
"Well, Congratulations. New job for you. Go clean that up." Cyrus smiled widely, eyes closed.
He spoke in fours . . . he moved in fours . . .
Malik leaned closer, "Dad, when's food ready?"
"Just wait a bit. Your food's almost ready."
Again.
Kaya eyed Cyrus, but shrugged and sat back down.
It's time.
Malik's brain felt like clockwork.
It showed visions of past, present, and future overlapping.
The origins . . . the cries at night . . . and the endless sorrows that would follow if he wasn't shattered. Sinking into the quiet, meshing together borrowed memories.
There was a phrase.
Cyrus stared upward . . . like remembering his return from war.
Up.
Malik tracked his gaze.
No . . . that can't be.
A voice cut through the thought.
"Dinner's served, my children."
The smell bloomed in the air. However, Malik sat, distracted, listening more than eating.
"You don't like it?" Cyrus asked.
Malik looked down, noticing the utensils.
A fork, a spoon, and two knives.
Balance.
He began eating, attentively.
Looking around, he realized Zayne wasn't there.
Moments later, stumbling footsteps and clinking noises echoed.
Zayne came out of the kitchen, half-drunk, handing out beers to everyone as he giggled. He patted Malik's back.
The note from earlier, he had left it for Zayne.
Laughter was shared, then everyone drank, except Malik and Kaya.
Minutes passed.
One by one, they fell.
Even Cyrus.
"And comrades fall silently," Cyrus murmured, in a near-drunken state.
Then corrected himself. "They fell without sound."
Four.
Malik smiled.
When it all fell silent, he waved Kaya over.
. . .
Moonlight washed over the office. Four banners hung along the wall.
"Grief. Joy. Fear. Forgiveness."
What is this obsession?
Four.
He rushed to Cyrus's desk, and opened the cabinets.
A folded letter lay in the corner of it.
Malik grabbed it. Kaya watched closely.
At the top, a name. The letter had been addressed to . . .
Mashia.
Below that,
"And they fall silently."
Kaya whispered, "Four means something."
"Its a pattern," Malik said.
So much. Why four?
"Follow me."
Malik led Kaya into the dark ballroom, then right in front of the red outline barely glimmering around the keyholes.
They returned to the door of many questions.
. . .
"I see it clearly now. i was too scared to open my eyes." Kaya said.
Malik worriedly tapped the tablet on the door, pressed the flashing lime button, and held it. He cleared his throat. "Grief, Joy, Fear, Forgiveness." The machine whirred and—
Nothing.
He stared downward at the keyhole.
He knelt down and stared into it. The spiral that answered.
"Wait a minute," looking closer into the spiral, noticing a small, near-indiscernible grid-like pattern hidden in the bottom layer of the spiral.
"Grief," he said to it at the bottom right. It whirred, but nothing more.
Next, the top right: "Joy." Then the top left: "Fear." Malik exhaled, knelt to the bottom left: "Forgiveness." The machine whirred again.
Still nothing.
"And they fell silently," he uttered calmly.
"A rhythm."
He felt the metal grating on the door; its smooth yet cynical texture.
He fell silently in thought.
Then, something clicked.
He turned his attention away from it.
. . .
"Kaya," he paused. "What made me finally tackle something I've always wanted to know, but never had the guts for, until now?"
She tilted her head.
Oh. I see . . .
"You helped me get to where I am now, Kaya."
Malik walked forward, and hugged her.
"You were puzzled too. Maybe now, you have one thing answered," he spoke softly.
She looked up at him, trying to keep a tough composure, but smiled, pulling him closer.
"You don't have to carry this alone, Malik." Kaya said.
. . .
They embraced each other.
She let go and beamed endearingly, then walked and waved at him to come gather the crew.
Malik walked behind her, his smile imprinted on his face.
They carried everyone else to their rooms, except Cyrus.
Malik helped Kaya him to bed.
He peered at a photo of his younger self on the wall . . . then a crew.
A treasured crew, swallowed by the sea.
"I miss them." Malik whispered to himself.
Kaya overheard and frowned.
"I should head to my new room," Kaya muttered.
Her door shut. Malik was the last one awake.
"Dad . . . why hide from me? " He muttered to his slumbering father.
He walked up the stairs, passing the door that always sought attention.
Malik gave it the silent treatment, entering his room that's next to Amaya's, but in between hers and the hidden door.
The moonlight shone through a blurry window.
The lights were barely visible anymore to Malik's eyes.
Echoes haunted the room, which only contained a mattress . . . and solace.
"Every word counts." He sat down on the mattress, wondering to himself.
Is grief what I've been avoiding? And is joy what I've been seeking?
Fear must be knowing the door . . . and forgiveness? Have I even . . . earned it?
Nobody could save him.
That may have been the truth he had been avoiding.