He saw them. Their bright lights grazed the chrome bars on the ship, so why can't anybody see them?
It's odd. These people will live not knowing what's up there. And I can't 'talk' about it, or else I get scolded. Am I grieving the loss of its name?
Malik stared out into the sky, as Zayne played with his fingers.
Samir, Cyrus, and Kamil cooked hibachi in front of the table, filling the air with wondrous spices. At that moment, they layered the meat with turmeric and more paprika, flowing about.
He noticed Cyrus telling an old sea story as they flipped the meat on the long grill. Words like "Forget," "Sea," "Shine" caught Malik's attention. He stored them.
Kamil laughed, but delayed.
Kaya and Amaya went into the kitchen to make soup. They slid past Cyrus as he cut the meat in an unconventional way. Four cuts in the span of four seconds, when he normally did one cut in two.
Lias tried making some kind of corrosive liquid with whatever non-regulated concoction was in that bottle he held. He smiled, his gothic face lit as he looked at the three men.
There's more . . . I'm a nosy one.
Malik excused himself from his seat, wrote a note on a scrap of paper with the pen in his pocket, and left it on the table for Zayne to see.
Rocking dark waves said their greetings as he walked down the hallway, passing his dad's office, the restroom, then glancing at the unlit corridor that led to everyone's rooms . . . and there it was.
The door: An old friend. It was dark. The lights were off, yet the layout was glued to Malik's mind.
He carefully went down each step. From his perspective, it looked like an old toy left in the corner of a closet. Lifeless. After all, it's the people and the memories in it that truly light it.
Walking . . . stepping . . . tip-toeing to the center, he took a sharp right and—
Right there, the room, in all its ominous glory.
Malik creaked on the wooden-metal stairs in front of it. The smooth metal was ambient, but the wood creaked like thunder. Malik cringed with each step, crawling toward the door again.
I'd always been drawn to this thing. It used to be a guest room, but Dad made it a secret since I was about seven or so . . .
It still leaked a glow around it, reminiscent of blood. A spotlight in the void.
Attached to the door was a digital screen with a recorder, flashing a small green light button. It asked for an audio prompt on a certain 'sentence.'
It read in bold black on a blinding white background: "Awaiting sentence prompt."
I've never taken a good look.
Compared to the other doors, its exaggerated appearance stood out like a sore thumb . . . an outlier.
Circling the entire perimeter, he noticed something strange about the bolts on each corner.
These aren't regular.
Inching to the bottom-right bolt, his finger grazed it. Hesitant . . . it's a normal bolt, right? It twisted like a contortionist . . . he flinched back, smiling. He knew there was a way.
It's not a bolt. A keyway. Four of them.
Four spirals. Four turns. Moonlight outlined the corners. Each "bolt" was a carved helix, down-spiraling steel. Not meant to hold . . . meant to listen.
A sentence . . . and four keys. One person alone can't open this. And I know Dad wouldn't trust anybody to help him.
He chuckled, walking away as he tapped the metal-wood floorboard, returning to the night in shadow. Walking back . . . He saw Cyrus tapping his palm with his index finger . . . three times, then another delayed tap.
He sat back down next to Zayne, attentive.
Kaya and Amaya emerged from the kitchen, holding two bowls of soup. Amaya had a grin like a child getting candy as a reward. Cyrus turned around. He held metal tongs clasping the steak. He tapped it once, then another, and twice more.
He laughed, clearing his dry throat. "You girls do know that soup was expired, right? I just forgot to throw it out," he said, flashing an innocent smirk. His chapped lips fine-tuned across his rough complexion.
"Aw, screw it!" Amaya dumped her soup onto the floor. Kaya giggled silently, holding in her laughter.
"Hey! I just cleaned this floor, god damn it!" Zayne cried from the table.
"Well, how incredibly rude. New job for you. Go clean that up." Cyrus closed his eyes, his smile growing wider.
He spoke in fours . . . he tapped in fours . . . if I just-
In a spur: "Dad, when's food ready?"
"Just wait a bit. Your food's almost ready."
There it is again.
Kaya eyed Cyrus, noticing something strange. She shrugged and sat back down at the table while Amaya complained, cleaning up the remains of her anger.
It's time.
Malik's brain felt like clockwork. He entered an empty place in his mind, burdened by thoughts. He felt something must finally break . . . just at the edge . . . the brink of discovery.
A wedge in between the solutions; That wedge must be broken. The clockwork in his head showed visions of past, present, and future.
The origins . . . the cries at night . . . and the endless sorrows that would follow if he wasn't shattered. Sinking into the quiet, meshing together memories that weren't his . . . and the ones that were.
There was a phrase.
The grizzled old captain looked up in nostalgia . . . like remembering the day he returned home from a civil war.
Up.
Malik scratched his eyebrows, blinked, then wondered. He also looked up.
No . . . that can't be.
Voices interrupted the silence, one noticeably clear.
"Dinner's served, my children."
The smell illuminated the air, mouths watering . . . truly delectable. Distracted by the scent, Atlas focused on the words of everyone around him.
"You don't like it?" Cyrus asked.
Malik looked at the utensils on the side: A fork, a spoon, and two knives.
"Hm."
He began eating, attentively. Kaya stared at Malik, politely eating her steak, noticing that he was acting strange. Looking around, she realized Zayne wasn't there.
Where is he? He was just there.
Stumbling, clinking noises echoed from the hallway behind the kitchen. Zayne came out of the kitchen, half-drunk, handing out beers to everyone as he giggled. He patted Malik's back.
The note from earlier, he had left it for Zayne. It read: "They said they wanted to drink. Get some from the mini-fridge you hide. Surprise them, and I'll put in a good word for your survey."
"Zayne, you shouldn't have!" Cyrus cheered, clinking bottles with the intoxicated Zayne, as the others unscrewed their drinks, all except Kaya and Malik.
Zayne chowed down on his meal like a hungry lion, washing it down with more liquor. Malik smiled. This was crucial.
Minutes passed. Laughter shared. He stared.
Nothing's off.
They all fell drunk.
Vos started laughing, holding the bottle in his large hands, sleeves rolled up, collar loose. His wrinkled smile dragged across his square, elderly face.
"I tell ya', man." He laughed, bumping Kamil's shoulder, face red from drinking half the bottle.
All his past sentences . . . four words.
Samir was silent, only thinking to himself. He took a sip, then excused himself to bed early.
Zayne fell asleep in his chair, two empty bottles laid out on the table.
"And comrades fall silently," Cyrus murmured, in a near-drunken state. Then he reworded himself: "They fell without sound."
A four . . . and another four.
Malik, chewing—stared with his two swirling gray storms still, chin resting on his knuckle.
"I lost my men. Long ago. They fell. And they fall silently." Cyrus began reminiscing on trauma, grasping the bottle.
"What happened to them?" Malik asked like a child in a bedtime story, covering a smile.
"They saw the . . . err. I don' even know." His speech deteriorated. His head drooped, sleepy.
Malik bumped his leg under the table. Cyrus stirred, sat up quickly. "Ah . . . ma' bad, boy."
He's speaking in that rhythm again.
"I miss 'em dearly. They were ma' break. I'm scared to lose. But I forget it, err . . ." He mumbled as he passed out, his finger tapping the white silk table twice—then twice again.
Malik smiled. Everyone had fallen asleep . . . except Kaya.
His words . . . if I check his office, I may find something.
He saw Kaya, clueless. He waved for her to follow him as he stood.
"What's all this?" she asked.
"You'll see," he whispered, as they walked together toward the room.
The office where the meeting had taken place hours ago. Moonlight illuminated exactly four banners across a wall. They read, in bold lettering:
"Grief. Joy. Fear. Forgiveness."
What is this obsession?
"Four . . . four means something," Kaya whispered.
"It's a pattern," Malik agreed. "Every time a matter of fours is involved, it changes his speech, emotions, and habits. I never noticed until today . . . when I thought about the door."
"Don't you think this is a bit far-fetched?" Kaya asked.
"It is. Which is why it has a chance. Too many coincidences."
Four utensils. Two knives. A counterbalance . . . and the last things he said. They have something to do with these banners. I'm lost.
He rushed to Cyrus's desk. He opened the cabinets, searching for letters, documents, anything Cyrus might've hidden. A folded letter lay in the corner of it, with a lead pencil beside it. Malik grabbed it. Kaya watched closely.
"It looks unfinished," Malik said.
At the top, a name. The letter had been addressed to:
Mashia.
Odd.
Below that, four words stood out, right beneath the name:
"And they fall silently." He laid the letter down, facepalmed, gliding his hand down his face.
"What is this," he muttered.
Kaya looked at the unfinished letter. "Who's they?"
"That's for me to figure out. But I don't think I'll like it."
"I want to help too, Malik," Kaya added.
"Maybe this . . . isn't some puzzle. But a test."
"I believe it to be a message. No trickery. Because only he knows . . . and we're messing with it." Malik looked around, noting the banners in his mind.
"I shouldn't have let Kamil and Amaya fall asleep. They would've given us insight."
"I'll try to wake them up, but it may be too late." Kaya left the room. Malik followed, his eyes still on the banners.
Hm.
Malik took a file from Vos's desk and threw it on the floor. He returned to the others, all slowly waking, still intoxicated.
"What the-" Kamil muttered, rubbing his eyes.
"Five more minutes, Mom," Zayne said, slumped over.
"What's this about . . ." Amaya asked dizzily.
Malik walked to Kamil—shook him, but his red face showed no soberness.
"Amaya?" Kaya asked.
"Whaddaya want, Kaya dear?" Amaya said, loose and slow.
"We need help with something." Kaya helped Amaya to her feet and brought her to the banners.
"Those," Amaya mumbled.
"Yes. What do they mean?" Kaya asked softly.
"It was somethin' about feelin'. He always talked about how he felt. Said feelin' wasn't nothin' to be ashamed of." She sniffed. "Can I go back now?"
"Yes, Amaya." Malik heard as Kaya helped her back to her seat.
So much. Why four? Why 'they fall silently'? Was he talking about people . . . or sentiments?
Atlas scratched his head. Kaya returned.
"Maybe it was in something he said, not just what, but how," she said.
"Meant . . . truth . . . I get it now," he said, looking up. "The rule of fours for him is a feeling of trust. Or any deep feeling really."
Kaya tilted her head—listening.
"Don't you notice how his sentences go in four words when he's being sincere? 'I miss 'em dearly.' 'They were ma' break.'" Malik said proudly.
"Wait a minute. Miss and break. That's connected to the banners," Kaya noted.
Malik leaned in toward the doorway.
"The order," he said. "Kaya, on the door, there are four keyholes, one on each corner. This could be it."
A secret sentence.
"Follow me."
Malik led Kaya into the dark ballroom, then right in front of the red outline barely glimmering around the keyholes.
"I see them now," she said.
Malik worriedly tapped the tablet on the door, pressed the flashing lime button, and held it. He cleared his throat. "Grief, Joy, Fear, Forgiveness." The machine whirred and—
Nothing.
"I guess it makes sense . . . not a clear sentence," he said.
"Something with subtext," Kaya added.
He stared downward at the keyhole.
The moonlight brightened, casting etched luminance on the inside.
He knelt down and stared into it. The spiral that answered.
"Wait a minute," looking closer into the spiral, noticing a small, near-indiscernible grid-like pattern hidden in the bottom layer of the spiral.
"A microphone," Malik said.
"Grief," he said to it at the bottom right. It whirred, but nothing more.
Next, the top right: "Joy." Then the top left: "Fear." Malik exhaled, knelt to the bottom left: "Forgiveness." The machine whirred again.
Still nothing.
The rule of fours.
"And they fell silently," he uttered calmly. "I don't think it's a sentence anymore. A rhythm . . . a ritual, even." He felt the metal grating on the door; its smooth yet cynical texture.
"Each keyhole, each microphone . . . I know it represents one of those words . . ."
All of a sudden, it clicked in his mind. He'd set himself up in a trap.
Oh God . . . I realize now. A word of no name, or of great importance. Not around anyone. I'm scared. If I say it, it'll make it real once more.
"Damn . . . its not opening. I must've been wrong." Malik began to "lose" composure.
"I know there might be important things in there, but you can't beat yourself up about this. There's a reason he doesn't want you to know," Kaya consoled.
"Always hiding something . . . and for my whole life?" He muttered.
"Maybe it isn't worth it now. You're not feeling right," she said.
"Kaya," he paused. "What made me finally tackle something I've always wanted to know, but never had the guts for until now?"
"Hm?"
"You, Kaya. I saw it in you. You know. But I know too. You are the catalyst to prevent myself."
Kaya stared at him. Her eyes turned an amber tint out of instinct, but she shut them off hurriedly.
Oh. I see what he means . . .
"You helped me, Kaya." In a spur-of-the-moment decision, Kaya rushed forward and hugged him tightly. Her warm grasp shaped Malik, and he patted her on the back too.
"I know you're confused, but it'll be okay," she comforted him.
"You're puzzled too, and that's alright. You came here for answers, but got more questions. Maybe now, you have one thing answered," he spoke softly.
She looked up at him, trying to keep a tough composure, but smiled, pulling him closer. Malik noticed up close how delicate she was; Her athletic figure pressed against him with the gentleness of a rabbit.
"If it makes you worried, I'll stop," he said.
"No. It's what you want, right?" she asserted. "And if the truth matters more than its curse, that shows you're willing to sacrifice ignorance. I wish I was more like you, Malik."
"Believe me, you don't." He laughed faintly. "Well, alright . . . let's get everyone to bed. We'll figure this out, I promise. You changed us in a few hours. In a few weeks, you can change the world."
Kaya let go and beamed endearingly. She walked and waved at him to come gather the crew.
Malik walked behind her, his smile imprinted on his face.
I can't stress around her. She acts like a mother . . . or at least, in Zayne's definition. And I can't take away the smile of a pure soul like her.
Atop the deck, they woke up each member one by one. Malik led them to the room, as Kaya helped them stand.
Zayne's room is on the corner of the second floor; A messy room with weights and bars lying about, a hazard in the dark. It displays years of discipline, and the aroma had hints of a sad victory. He hugs his pillow tight as he rests, a tear escapes his eye whilst in slumber.
Kamil's room which next to Zayne's was organized. He had a lit green fluorescent light above a tank with a sleeping frog in it, although the tall man stumbled a lot. The drunken man tended to his frog, twiddling his frog necklace as he smiles lightly as he adjusts the lighting on the tank for his little friend.
On the top floor next to Kamil, Amaya's room had a desk, a chair, and papers scattered on the floor. Her mind frolicked around the room, hanging on the walls, the floors, and even the ceilings. Her study shows no bounds of sleepless nights with wires taped to the ceiling.
Lias's room was on the bottom floor near the ballroom, covered in band posters. An old, vintage electric guitar lay in the corner, and his black mattress absorbed any light. He boarded up the windows, secluding himself to music with albums a plethora of albums on the floor, and a black boombox.
Samir's room was to the right of Lias's. No sound emitted from it as he had already went to bed. A strict regimen for a soldier who speaks few words.
Lastly, Cyrus's room was next to Lias's, and was full of old pictures. It has a ceiling fan from the old ages, it whirred with a humming sound of disappointment.
Malik helped Kaya carry the drunk, muscled old man to bed, and Atlas tapped a cyan-outlined glowing light switch to turn it on faintly. The light-switch was the only remnant the old man kept of the modern era. He peered at his younger self . . . then a crew. A treasured crew, swallowed by the sea.
"I remember them. I miss them. Where did they go?" Malik whispered to himself.
Kaya overheard and frowned. She felt ashamed looking at the photos, knowing a truth a friend had forgotten.
"I should head to my new room," Kaya muttered.
"Yeah . . . yeah. It's to the right." She nodded, still wearing a frown.
Her door shut. Malik was the last one awake.
"Dad . . . why hide from me? Do I scare you?" He muttered to his slumbering father. "When can I think for myself?" Malik exhaled. He turned off the white light with a tap.
He walked up the stairs, passed the door that always sought attention. Malik gave it the silent treatment, entering his room that's next to Amaya's, but in between hers and the hidden door.
The moonlight shone through a blurry window. The stars were barely visible anymore to Malik's eyes. Echoes haunted the room, which only contained a mattress . . . and solace.
"Forget. Sea. Shine," Malik whispered. "Every word counts." He sat down on the mattress, wondering to himself.
Why now? Why does it have to be today? Is grief what I've been avoiding? And is joy what I've been seeking?
They're the truth I wanted to hide from myself . . . and the lie I wanted to live. A counterbalance. Just like the knives with the other utensils.
Fear must be knowing the door . . . and its uncertainties. Its whirs. And forgiveness? Have I even . . . earned it? Do I forgive myself?
Nobody can save me.