Night draped the village in a velvet darkness. The air outside was cool and smelled faintly of damp soil after the late evening drizzle. Alya stood at the window, watching her mother, Firdaus, and Balqis walking down the path toward the masjid, their silhouettes shrinking beneath the weak glow of the streetlamps. Their voices blended softly with the night, then vanished as they turned the corner.
She was alone in the house.
It wasn't unusual; she had been left behind many times. Yet tonight the quiet felt heavier, like a weight pressing against her chest.
She locked the door, then wandered into the living room. The familiar sight of the old radio on the side table gave her a small sense of comfort. She turned the dial, the static crackling until a familiar melody floated through the speakers.
…Cindailah mana tidak berkias
Jalinnya lalu rentah beribu...
Siti Nurhaliza's voice filled the room, rich and haunting. Alya's lips curved into a faint smile. She had loved this song since she was a teenager. The rhythm, the old-world lyrics, the way the melody wrapped itself around you like silk.
She sat on the couch, scrolling through her phone, humming under her breath. Her thumb moved absently over the screen. The glow of the phone reflected in her tired eyes, casting a ghostly light across her face.
Then she heard it.
At first, it was so soft she thought it was part of the song. A faint echo, like another voice trailing behind Siti's. But then it grew clearer.
A whisper.
It came from the back of the house, behind the thin walls, drifting in from the yard. It was low, almost too low to understand, yet unmistakably human. And it was singing.
The same melody. The same lyrics.
… Cindailah mana tidak berkias
Jalinnya lalu rentah beribu...
Alya froze, her thumb hovering over her phone screen. Her heart thudded against her ribs. She turned her head slowly toward the back window. The curtains stirred slightly though there was no breeze.
The whisper kept singing, a half-second behind the radio, like an echo chasing the song.
Her breath came shallow. She reached out with a trembling hand and lowered the radio's volume.
The whispering voice did not stop.
She switched the radio off completely.
For a heartbeat there was silence. Then, from the yard, the whisper continued—singing alone now, unaccompanied, the melody slower and warped, dragging each note like it was struggling to breathe.
Alya's skin prickled. Her heart pounded harder. She grabbed her phone and stood up, her knees weak. Without looking back toward the window, she moved quickly down the hall to her room.
Once inside, she shut the door and locked it. The click of the lock was louder than she expected. She leaned against the door, her pulse echoing in her ears.
She climbed into bed, curling up beneath the blanket though the air was warm. She stared at the ceiling, trying to convince herself it was her imagination—just a neighbor humming outside, maybe a radio from another house. Nothing more.
But then came the knocking.
A single, soft rap on the door.
She sat up, her breath catching in her throat.
Another knock. Slow, deliberate.
Her hands clutched the blanket tighter. "Ibu?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.
No answer.
The knocking came again, louder this time. Three beats, slow and heavy. Then silence.
Alya swung her legs off the bed, her bare feet pressing into the cool floor. She stared at the door, her heart hammering. The quiet stretched out, long and thin.
Then the knocking started again, but faster now—urgent, pounding, like fists slamming against the wood.
Alya clapped her hands over her ears. "Stop… please stop…" she whispered, tears stinging her eyes.
And then—
The azan began to reverberate from the masjid, the call to prayer echoing through the village. Its melody was strong and clear, cutting through the night air.
The pounding on the door stopped instantly.
Silence.
Alya's breath came in ragged gasps. She lowered her hands from her ears, straining to listen. Nothing. No whispers. No knocking.
The azan continued outside, its notes steady and calming.
She slumped back onto the bed, her body trembling, and stared at the door. The wooden surface looked ordinary again, unmarked, innocent.
Minutes stretched into an hour. The house was silent except for the faint creak of the wooden beams settling in the night. She tried to slow her breathing, telling herself it was over, telling herself she was imagining things.
Finally, she heard footsteps outside. Familiar voices. The sound of keys jingling. Her mother, Firdaus, and Balqis had returned from the masjid.
Alya didn't move. She stayed in bed, her eyes fixed on the door, her body still rigid. She could hear them talking softly in the living room, the clink of cups, the scrape of chairs. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.
But the echo of the whisper still lingered in her ears, curling like smoke through her mind.
… Cindailah mana tidak berkias
Jalinnya lalu rentah beribu...
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block it out.
Outside her door, the house was normal again.
But inside her head, the song would not stop.