Malik wakes up, opening his eyes softly.
He melts in his bed. His blanket wraps him as he looks out the blurry, barred window.
The light of day shines bright through the window.
Like watercolor paintings, a violet and orange mixture fills the room with the break of dawn. Beyond it, the clouds dance with their ethereal luminescence.
Once grey, the room is warmed with color. The sky blends with it, forming a diverse palette.
The light touches his face. It feels like the sky is painting every angle of him. His eyes meet the light. They swirl gracefully in his irises as they blink.
Yawning, Malik waves to the sky. It gives a bright gleam back to him. He slowly gets up, his bed creaking, telling him to get more rest.
He politely declines, stretching his legs and arms, taking a deep breath. The color in the room welcomes him, his shadow leading him to his door.
Taking one last glance before opening it, he sees his room. It is empty. Only a simple mattress lies there, yet it looks full of life. The light from outside emphasizes its beauty, and he takes it all in.
Malik slowly opens his door, waving goodbye to it.
. . .
Walking out, he is greeted by the wooden-steel floorboards of the main hall, where everyone else slept. He sees that he is the only one awake at the moment, so he carefully tiptoes.
He inspects the wooden railing on this floor, its zig-zag pattern leading to the stairs below. His hand glides across it, following its path downward. The intricate detailing comforts him.
Walking carefully down the steps, he strolls down each flight. Reaching the floor, he looks up, enamored by the refined decorations of the main hall.
High-rise wooden tables along with padded red chairs surround the hall, enough to make one think it is the bar of a cruise ship. Hanging chandeliers rest above, glowing with a lemon incandescence. The room emits a welcoming presence, the warmth of the yellow light hugging him tighter than the sky.
Malik walks out of the hall, meeting the steel door by the edge of the large stairs. The shiny, sea-like metal greets him, and he grazes it. He feels its sleek touch and beautiful craftsmanship.
He meets the hallway again, leading to his father's office and a restroom. The walls are lathered in a clean, chrome-like color. The sky adds flavor to their shining presence.
The clean smell of the walls brightens the dawn's allure. Seagulls cry as the ship slowly rocks. Malik walks out of the hall to meet the steel railings. He grabs them firmly and sees the sky come in contact with the bright blue sea.
Looking further, he sees the orange sun rise from the waves, brightening the day. The waves greet the sun, and they all greet each other for another great day. Still rising, the sun blooms with the sky as the tides lift higher than before.
Malik feels the ship slightly elevate. The tide has pushed it upward along with it. Soft crashing waves glow opaque. Through the light, the wonders of the ocean are clearer than day.
Inspecting the waters, all sorts of fish glide softly, following the ship's path. The fish differ in color, shape, size, and species. They only swim forward, forming a group despite their contrasts.
He laughs, letting go of the railing, calling out to the fish. He walks toward the bow and sees Cyrus with his hands behind his back, facing the ocean, mumbling something to himself.
Looking past him, a heavy cathedral of clouds forms a path, as if showing the ship where to go as it sails through the calm blue.
Gently, the ship keeps striding, like a lone pebble in a lake. It tips side to side, a small wake-up call to those still in slumber.
Malik lies down, his back to the floor. He gets a closer look at the sky this time. It is riddled with hints of cyan, blending further still. The clouds seem to want to watch, so they drift closer together. Soft light seeps through cream-white edges.
Malik lifts his arm, pointing his finger at each cloud, counting them. He mumbles until he loses count, as they merge into one. Soon, the sky will turn fully blue, and the clouds will shine brighter than they do now.
Dawn begins to pass, and morning sheds light on itself, unveiling itself truly as the sun blooms into a deeper yellow hue.
Feeling something in his pocket, Malik pulls it out. The blade looks rusty. He holds it toward the sky, and it reflects nothing.
. . .
He gets up and carefully steps back into the hall, entering a dimly lit storage room. Brushes, cleaning products, and detergents line the space. The clean, fresh smell fills the room. Even stepping inside feels like a cleansing in itself.
Malik goes through layers of cabinets and eventually grabs a bottle and a thick brush. The bottle is blue, holding a liquid bluer than its shell. The brush is wooden, its bristles hard, built to scrub anything clean.
Walking out and tenderly closing the storage door, he spots some of the crew. Zayne yawns while mopping the floor near the tables, music playing from a recorder hanging out of his pocket. His mop lathers the floor in deep moisture, foaming with soap and vinegar as it seeps in.
Malik walks past, gliding up the steps as the aroma permeates the hall. The liquid in the bottle swishes as he grips the brush.
Strolling back to his room, he sees the rest of the crew emerge, rubbing their eyes and yawning.
Lias waltzes out, greeting Zayne as he begins welding something. His tools hiss, drowned out by the music.
Kamil exits his room carrying heavy boxes, dragging them toward storage. Samir notices and helps him.
Amaya kicks open her door, carrying vials and bottles of medicine on trays balanced on both arms like a waitress.
Malik, noticing the morning fully awake, returns to his room. It greets him warmly as the yellow hall light fades when he closes the door.
. . .
And so, everything feels quiet, drowned in the endless comfort of his bedroom.
He sits on the edge of his soft mattress, setting the brush and bottle beside him.
Inspecting his blade, he notices the heavy rust coating it, as if it hasn't been cleaned in centuries.
Malik twists open the bottle and pours the liquid over it. Drops clink against the sleek floor.
Holding the brush, he scrubs slowly. Rust flakes scatter as he cleans, though much of it resists, only faintly falling away.
He has tried to clean it before, but this time he persists, determined to make it presentable. Sadly, it never fully works. The oxidized texture always remains.
Malik furrows his brows and scrubs harder, pouring more liquid until a puddle forms on the floor.
Foam builds, dark-hued like a cloud. He continues as it slides off the blade. Beneath it, only a faint layer of rust remains.
He wipes the foam away and stares. Just a thin coat lingers. He sets the bottle and brush down.
He lifts his other hand and feels the blade. It is coarse and scarred, like molten lava.
Instinctively, Malik scratches it and—
A dark color emerges. Vibrant. Warm. Like obsidian. The window light reflects off it, shimmering between shards of rust.
Quickly, Malik scratches the rest, grabbing the brush to unveil its elegance.
Then he sees it. His reflection.
Storm-grey eyes stare back at him through the dark blade.
He stares, and it stares back. A foreign blade, now recognized. It had only taken a few scrubs and some detergent to uncover it.
The rust withers in the lively light, scraped away and forgotten.
Malik peers closer, seeing many things in the blade.
Things he cannot remember. Things he loved. And things he could not prevent.