The Quiet Architect

The night was cloaked in a thick veil of stillness, as if the world had held its breath and forgotten to let go. The rain had subsided hours ago, yet the streets still glistened with puddles of water, reflecting the world in a distorted, otherworldly way. Malik's bicycle moved stealthily, its wheels whispering against the slick pavement. There was a chill in the air, an eerie silence that only served to heighten the sense of foreboding that seemed to linger around every corner.

Despite this, Malik wasn't afraid. He was on a mission, and nothing could deter him. His wife had asked him time and time again to dispose of the old magazines cluttering their home, but something inside him had always resisted. It wasn't until tonight, with the moon a mere sliver in the sky, that he had finally felt the pull to act.

The stack of yellowed magazines on his bicycle's back seat weighed heavily on his conscience. He knew they needed to be disposed of, but something about tossing them in the recycling bin felt wrong. So, instead, he had set out to find a new home for them. A place where they would be appreciated, where they might find a second life.

As he pedalled through the darkened streets, his eyes scanning for the right house, he heard it. A low moaning, a sound that seemed to rise from the very earth itself. But Malik didn't flinch. He knew what he had to do.

Finally, he spotted it - a house with a golden gate, like a beacon in the darkness. Malik pulled up to the gate, carefully lowering the stack of magazines to the ground. He had prepared a note, just in case someone found the magazines before morning. "Hi there, I've got some old magazines lying around.," it read. "Thought you might want them, but if you don't need them just toss 'em out, no big deal.”

With a deep sense of satisfaction, Malik mounted his bicycle once again and rode away into the night, his mission complete. He didn't know what would become of the magazines, but he knew he had done the right thing. And somehow, that was enough.

***

Grandpa was a serene and private person. He rarely ventured outside and preferred the comfort of our home. Although, he did tend to his beloved flowers and practised tai-chi in the front yard when the mood struck him. Two years ago, when I was just eight years old, I overheard Mummy and Daddy conversing about Grandpa's peculiar fear of bricks and construction sites. I never quite grasped the reasoning behind it and whenever I asked Mummy to explain, she would simply reply that I would understand when I grew older.

Today, however, I found myself in dire need of Grandpa's assistance. I had caused some trouble at school, and the disciplinary teacher, Cikgu Rozita, had tried to contact my parents earlier. I was terrified at the thought of facing their wrath. Thankfully, my homeroom teacher, Cikgu Azman, had been away participating in a sports program, so she hadn't been able to get a hold of my parents' phone numbers. Though she did request that I bring Mummy or Daddy to school, I refused.

As Grandpa sat quietly engrossed in his Candy Crush game in the living room, I took a deep breath and made a plea for his help. "Grandpa, I really need your help," I said with desperation in my voice.

"My dear Paul, what is the matter?" my grandpa asked with a loving tone, sensing my reluctance to speak. I knew that what I was about to say would require him to leave the safety of our home, but I mustered the courage to confess my wrongdoing. To my surprise, Grandpa, who had always been gentle with me, raised his voice in anger. "Why did you do that?" he demanded.

Overwhelmed with fear and shame, I couldn't utter a word and broke down into tears, my sobs punctuated by snorts. I felt so scared of him. But then, as quickly as his anger had arisen, his face softened into a look of guilt. He approached me with trembling arms and hugged me tightly, rubbing my back. "Shh...it's okay. I'll help you," he said gently. "But this will be the first and last time."

Together, we made our way to my school, and for the first time, I saw a different side of Grandpa. Along the way, he trembled with fear, and I held his hand tightly, as if protecting him instead of the other way around. When we reached a construction site of what I believed was an apartment building, he became almost breathless and his face turned pale white. I felt so guilty for putting him in this situation.

Thankfully, everything went well between him and Cikgu Rozita, and Grandpa became much calmer as soon as he was in the Discipline Room. But, as we walked back home, his bouts of trembling and shaking returned. His fear was so severe that he had to take a moment to catch his breath and collect himself once we reached home.

Through this experience, I learned two valuable lessons. First, I realised the depth of Grandpa's love for me and his willingness to do anything to help me. Second, I vowed never to put him in such a situation again.

***

That night, Mummy and Daddy barged into my bedroom, their eyes wide with anger as if they were ready to explode. "Why did you do that?" Mummy shouted, her voice ringing through the room. "We never taught you to steal!" Daddy added, his tone equally fierce. "Get out of my house!"

Panic set in, and I didn't know what to do. Mummy began throwing my clothes out of the window while Daddy grabbed my arms and carried me to the door. I cried and apologised repeatedly, but they didn't want to listen. They were determined to disown me.

In desperation, I called out to Grandpa. "Grandpa! Help me!" I cried, looking up at the window of his bedroom. His worried face appeared at the window, and he opened it, saying, "Oh, Paul, my boy. Come here."

Tears streaming down my face, I stumbled towards him. But then something strange and frightening happened - his arms stretched out from the second-floor window and elongated until they reached me. I screamed in terror as he shook me and called out my name. "Paul...Paul...my boy. Wake up," he said.

Suddenly, I opened my eyes, realising that it was just a nightmare. Grandpa, Mummy, and Daddy stood over me, looking concerned. 

In an instant, I clung to Grandpa tightly, too afraid to be alone. 

Moments later, when Mummy and Daddy returned to their bedroom and it was only me and Grandpa in bed, he suggested, "Want me to read you a story?"

I nodded, smiling at the familiar comfort of his voice. As Grandpa read me "The Ruins of Gorlan," I became so calm that I didn't even realise when I fell asleep.

***

The following week, I returned home from a school camping trip, bubbling with excitement to share my experiences with Grandpa, Mummy, and Daddy. But as I walked through the door, I heard my parents' voices rising from the kitchen. They were too caught up in their argument to notice my arrival.

"Why did you think it was a good idea to take him out?" Mummy questioned.

"Honey, it's about time," Daddy replied.

"That's not the way. You know he's not well, and we need to take care not to trigger his PTSD."

"But –"

"Enough!"

Feeling disheartened, I quietly made my way up to my bedroom. As I passed by Grandpa's slightly open door, I heard a sound that I couldn't believe at first - the sound of an old man crying. My heart sank with sadness, and I stepped closer to see what was happening.

"Grandpa, what's the matter?" I asked, concerned.

He quickly wiped his eyes and forced a smile. "Nothing, my boy. It was just the dust," he replied, though I knew that he was lying.

I continued to talk to him about my camping trip, eager to share my experiences with him. As I animatedly recounted my adventures, I noticed that his smile began to return. But as I finished my story, his expression once again shifted to sadness.

Feeling helpless, I sat beside him and leaned my head on his shoulder. Despite not knowing what else to do, I hoped that my presence alone would bring him comfort.

All of a sudden, a light bulb went off in my mind. I recalled how Grandpa always read me a story whenever I was feeling down, and it never failed to lift my spirits. I felt a rush of excitement as I exclaimed, "Grandpa, stay right here!"

Grandpa looked puzzled, but I was determined to carry out my plan. I scurried off to my room to find the perfect storybook to read to him, but alas, I soon realised that all of my books were for children.

Then, a memory surfaced.

Brimming with enthusiasm, I bolted down the stairs and marched towards the storage room, completely ignoring my parents who were engaged in a conversation with me. Luckily, they didn't seem to mind; I suppose they were simply relieved to have me home safe and sound.

Once inside the storage room, my eyes scanned the stacks of old magazines on one of the shelves, and I let out a joyful sigh. This was it. I untied the rope that bound them together and reached for a magazine called Reader's Digest. I wasn't quite sure what it was, but it looked fitting for grown-ups.

With the magazine clutched in my hands, I bounded back upstairs, eager to read Grandpa a story and bring a smile back to his face.

Grandpa's eyes sparkled with curiosity as he asked, "What's that, Paul?"

Beaming with pride, I presented him with the Reader's Digest magazine, declaring, "I found you a storybook, Grandpa!"

With a grin, Grandpa replied, "Alright then, I'm waiting. Read me a story."

Fueled by enthusiasm, I eagerly flipped through the pages until I came across a tale that I thought would capture Grandpa's attention. The title of the story was 'The Unseen Hero.'

Taking a deep breath, I began reading aloud, my eyes transfixed on the words before me, "In the heart of the bustling city, the ZR Tower stretched towards the sky like a majestic mountain of glass and steel. People from far and wide came to marvel at the architectural brilliance of the skyscraper, praising the creativity of the architect who designed it. Yet, amidst the adulation and admiration, there was an untold story, the story of an unsung hero who had laid the foundation for this soaring giant."

I was completely lost in the story and didn't even glance up to see Grandpa's reaction as I continued reading, "Tragically, my father's life was cut short one fateful day. As he was working on the ground level, a ton of bricks fell from above, instantly killing him."

Although some of the words proved difficult to pronounce, I persevered and read on until the very end, "So, the next time you look up at a towering skyscraper, or any other building for that matter, remember not just the architects who designed it, but also the construction workers like Mohammad Saifullah Kahar, who risked everything to make the dreams of others a reality."

Filled with a sense of pride for having read the story from Reader's Digest to Grandpa, I was just about to inquire if he enjoyed it when I noticed something odd. Tears were streaming down his face and his body was trembling. I immediately knew that I had made a terrible mistake in choosing such a sad story for him.

Feeling foolish, I stammered, "Grandpa, I'm sor—"

"Call your mummy," he interrupted sternly.

"Grandpa, what's wro—"

"NOW!" he bellowed, leaving me no choice but to rush downstairs and summon my mother.

Minutes later, the two of them were engrossed in a private conversation inside Grandpa's room, with the door firmly shut. My curiosity piqued, I pressed my ear to the door and listened intently, straining to make out their hushed voices.

"It's a bit hard, Dad. This story was written in 1992," my mother said hesitantly.

"I know, but you have to try. This is a message from God, Norah. I've been waiting for this closure and finally, 31 years later, God moved Paul to read the story for me," Grandpa replied with a quiver in his voice.

"But, Dad—"

"Please. I was responsible for Saifullah's death. I was too careless at the time."

As I listened to their conversation, my mind began to race with a flurry of questions. It dawned on me that Grandpa had been a construction worker in the past, and that he had somehow played a role in his co-worker's untimely death. Could this be why he had always been so fearful of bricks and construction sites?

Realising that this was a "grown-up" talk, far beyond my comprehension, I retreated to my bedroom and drifted off into a deep sleep, my mind still reeling from all that I had overheard.

***

A few days had passed since the incident with Grandpa, and as I made my way out of school, I noticed something peculiar. Daddy's car was parked outside the school gate, which was odd since my house was only a short walk away.

Upon entering the car, Daddy's face lit up with excitement as he declared, "We're going to Anya Café today. Mummy and Grandpa are there!"

I nodded, still feeling a sense of bewilderment. "Grandpa is there too?"

Daddy beamed, "Yes!"

As soon as we arrived at the café, they shared the good news with me. It turned out that Mummy had managed to track down Siti Jarinah, the daughter of the late Muhammad Saifullah, who had authored the story that I had read to Grandpa.

"I've finally found my closure, and I feel so good," Grandpa exclaimed.

Although I didn't quite understand the meaning of the word "closure," I didn't bother to ask. Seeing Grandpa happy was enough to make me content as well.

As they continued their conversation, I learned that Siti Jarinah had long ago forgiven those responsible for her father's death. She knew all too well the dangers that came with being a construction worker, and she had nothing but respect for Grandpa.

Soon, our food arrived, and we devoured it with great gusto. Today was a truly happy day. Grandpa was finally free to venture out into the world again. I couldn't wait to accompany him on our next adventure, exploring exciting new places far beyond the confines of our home. I knew it would be an incredible experience.

***

Malik was on the move once more. His wife had been on his case about the cluttered bookshelf for weeks, and he knew she had a point. Their offspring were all grown and flown, and the shelves groaned under the weight of yellowing YA novels. So he gathered the paperbacks into a box, taped it shut, and secured it on the back of his trusty bicycle. As usual, Malik waited until the dead of night to execute his mission.

The moon shone brightly as he slipped out of the house, eager to execute his mission under cover of darkness. But the night felt different somehow, warmer and less ominous. Perhaps it was the gentle breeze that tousled his hair or the rustling of the leaves beneath his feet. Whatever the reason, Malik felt buoyant as he pedalled down the quiet streets.

He had no destination in mind, no plan for where to deposit his literary bounty. Instead, he followed his heart, allowing instinct to guide him. As he rode, he whistled a tune from his youth, the notes rising and falling in perfect harmony with his pedal strokes.

Finally, he came upon a small, gateless house with a perfectly manicured lawn. The air was fragrant with the scent of flowers, and he could hear the faint chirping of crickets in the distance. Without hesitation, he approached the flower pot and placed the box beside it, a note attached that read simply, "Some books for you. Thought you'd like them. Just toss 'em out if you don't need them, no big deal."

He felt good about what he'd done, so he hopped on his bike and rode home, whistling all the way.