Chapter 1: The Return
The rickety bus jolted over another pothole, throwing Sofia’s head against the fogged window. Outside, the rain poured relentlessly, obscuring the already narrow mountain road leading to Bukit Hujan. She rubbed the glass, revealing an unbroken expanse of jungle—a wall of green rising and falling like the waves of an unkind sea. Sofia sighed, her breath fogging the glass again. It had been over twenty years since she left this village, and now she was hurtling back toward it as if the rain had dragged her here.
Bukit Hujan. The name itself meant Rain Hill, and it was fitting. The village sat at the foot of a mountain that seemed cursed to draw storm clouds year-round. Sofia’s earliest memories were of thunder rumbling through the valley and of her mother sitting by the window, staring out at the torrents with a distant expression. Sofia never understood what her mother was looking for—or waiting for.
The bus lurched to a stop at what passed for the village center: a muddy square with a rusting bus stop sign and a few weathered wooden shops leaning against one another like drunks. Sofia stepped off, pulling her coat tighter against the cold rain. The air smelled of wet earth and decay, the kind of smell that seeped into your skin.
“Still the same,” she muttered, though she wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed.
“Sofia.” A voice called her name, hesitant, as though testing the sound. She turned to see an old man in a wide-brimmed hat, his face weathered like the wood of the village houses. It took her a moment to recognize him—Pak Leman, one of her late father’s closest friends.
“Pak Leman,” Sofia said, forcing a smile. “It’s been a long time.”
He nodded, but his expression was grim. “Too long, perhaps. You shouldn’t have come back.”
The words caught her off guard. “I’m just here for work,” she said, hoisting her bag higher. “I’ll be gone as soon as I finish my story.”
Pak Leman’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Stories have a way of staying here, even when the people don’t.” He glanced at the sky, as if gauging how much longer the rain would last. “Come. I’ll take you to your father’s house. You’ll find no taxis here.”
Sofia followed him through the muddy paths, her shoes sinking with every step. The village felt smaller than she remembered, the houses closer together, their tin roofs rusted and sagging under the weight of the rain. She noticed how the villagers peered at her from behind windows, their faces pale and drawn. It wasn’t curiosity in their eyes—it was something else. Fear, perhaps.
They reached her childhood home, a stilted wooden house at the edge of the village, half-hidden by overgrown trees. The sight of it hit her like a slap. The house looked as though it had been abandoned for years. Moss crawled up the wooden walls, and the windows were clouded with grime.
“I cleaned it a bit,” Pak Leman said, though Sofia doubted it. “You’ll find some candles inside. The power cuts out when the rain gets bad.”
“Thanks,” she said, though her voice wavered.
As he turned to leave, Pak Leman hesitated. “Sofia,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “Don’t go looking for answers in this village. Sometimes, it’s better not to know.”
She wanted to ask what he meant, but before she could, he was gone, disappearing into the rain like a ghost.
Inside, the house smelled of damp wood and mildew. Sofia set her bag down and lit a candle, its flickering light casting shadows on the peeling walls. She ran her fingers over the dusty furniture, the framed photos still hanging crookedly on the walls. Her mother’s smile stared back at her from one of them, frozen in time.
The whispers started that night.
At first, she thought it was just the rain. It pattered against the tin roof in an uneven rhythm, almost like a voice murmuring beneath the storm. But as she lay in bed, staring at the cracked ceiling, she realized it wasn’t her imagination. The rain was speaking—no, whispering. And it was calling her name.
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