that evening, the sky above Universiti Teknologi Nasional was a pale canvas of grey, brushed with the threat of rain. The June breeze was soft and sluggish, pushing dry leaves along the cracked walkway that stretched from the faculty blocks to the off-campus housing area.
zafran walked slowly, his worn brown sling bag slipping off one shoulder. He wore a faded brown jacket, jeans that had seen better days, and sneakers that used to be white — now dulled to a shade somewhere between dust and concrete. His face was gaunt, but his eyes still held a quiet fire, the kind that had endured more than it should.
He lived alone in a rented house at Taman Mahsuri, a modest neighbourhood just ten minutes' walk from campus. The house was a relic — once owned by a retired lecturer who'd moved to Johor, now offered at a student-friendly rent.
Half-brick, half-wood. One bedroom, a tiny living room, a cramped kitchen, and a bathroom barely wide enough for one person. No air conditioning, only a whining ceiling fan that made more noise than wind. But for Zafran, it was enough. It was home.
He took off his shoes at the door and stepped in barefoot. The cold cement floor greeted him like an old companion. The living room was sparsely furnished — a bamboo mat, a plastic bookshelf filled with textbooks and secondhand novels, and an oscillating fan that tilted more than it stood.
Zafran dropped his bag in the corner and made his way to the kitchen. It smelled faintly of old oil and leftover sambal. Inside the small fridge were three eggs, a bottle of boiled tap water, and a container of fried anchovy chili paste.
He lifted the food cover — leftover rice from last night. It'll have to do, he thought. This was his routine: stretch every sen, cook in batches, juggle classes and part-time jobs, and keep his life running like clockwork.
Just as he was scooping rice onto a plate, someone knocked — three brisk raps.
Tok tok tok!
"Zaf! Oi, open up! I know you're in there!"
Zafran sighed. That voice — unmistakable. hafiz.
Seconds later, the curtain at the front door shifted and Hafiz stepped inside with his trademark half-smile.
"This place feels like the tomb of a saint. If I didn't show up, you'd go full hermit mode," Hafiz teased.
He was dressed in his usual way — a navy-blue long-sleeved shirt, loose black slacks, and a white cap hanging from his canvas sling bag. His face was clean-shaven save for a thin line of beard along his jaw, and his eyes sparkled like they always had a joke waiting to escape.
Zafran smirked faintly. "I just got back. Do you have some sixth sense or what?"
"I saw your shoes outside. Dead giveaway you're still breathing," Hafiz said, plopping down cross-legged on the bamboo mat. He pulled out a plastic bag. "Here. The lady at the co-op gave me extra kuih lapis. You eat your rice, I'll take dessert."
"You look beat, Zaf. Long day?"
"Not really… the weather's just messing with my head."
Hafiz nodded as he scanned the simple room around them. "Don't you get lonely living alone?"
Zafran paused. "Sometimes. But I've gotten used to it. Silence is better than drama."
Hafiz chuckled. "Fair point. Just don't let the silence swallow you whole. The world's already quiet enough — we gotta make some noise just to feel alive."
Zafran looked at him. The words were light, but they stuck. That was Hafiz — he joked a lot, but sometimes, his truths came hidden in laughter.
After they finished eating, Hafiz stood up and slung his bag over his shoulder. "Don't be late for class tomorrow. Nine a.m. sharp. And if you are, I'm not sitting next to you. Embarrassing."
Zafran let out a soft laugh. "You say that every week."
When Hafiz left, the house fell silent again. The fan hummed, a stray cat meowed outside, and the call to Maghrib echoed faintly from the surau across the road.
That night, the silence felt… different. As if something was coming. Something that would break the rhythm of his quiet, calculated world.
He didn't know it yet, but tomorrow — his life would change.