Nurul sat there alone by the window in her small bedroom, staring out at the view outside that showcased the dark sky as the night began to arrive and as the sun had just set. The call to Maghrib had just ended, echoing all over the quiet neighborhood like a gentle reminder to people that the day was almost done.
Nurul didn't move from her spot, not even an inches.
The Quran on her desk was still open, its pages are slightly wrinkled from the humidity, marked at Surah Al-Baqarah. She had promised herself she would read it daily, trying to finish the entire Surah in less than a month. She however haven't touched it from over the last week.
It has been 4 years after her parents died and she been plucked away from her hometown by her distant uncle that took her in and now living in the City of Petaling Jaya, Selangor. Her Uncle, Luqman, was a kind person that gives her anything that she needed but from time to time, she always felt that odd stare that he would sometimes give to her, watching her as if afraid that "things" from the past would suddenly come back.
To be honest, Nurul didn't blame him. In fact, she was afraid of the same things.
Her parent death wasn't really explained. Some said that the two was attacked by "wild beast" or "gas leak." But no one actually believe what was said. Everyone, every single one that lived in that old village knew about it. They just didn't dare to speak it out loud but they know it well that her parent were deeply involved with something dark—the kinds that engraved itself through generation to generation to come.
Nurul had tried to bury that past behind, to leave that dark past and get herself a clean slate. Or at least tried to.
Now. Nurul was 16, she was smart, quiet and mostly keep to herself. She wore her tudung loosely and her sleeves long despite sometimes it would be a hot day outside. Her skin was pale, pale even for a village girl and almost ashen when exposed under bright light as if something had drained all her color from her long time ago. Her face, it was soft and delicate and that smile was enough to turns head. It was a kind of smile that could make boys suddenly go quiet without knowing exactly why. She prayed, sometimes. She studied, mostly. She stayed invisible, which was how she preferred it, never wanting to attract attention or show off to others.
Tomorrow was just another school day.
The next morning.
Nurul stood in front of SMK Taman Desa Mentari—a public school with fading red paint and many old poster about anti-vape campaigns all plastered across the front gates to remind students to never ever smoke or vape if they all valued their health. Student now flocked through the gate like herd of sheep, the air are filled with sounds of laughter, gossip of all kinds are floating in the air. Nurul however always kept her head low, backpack slung over one shoulder, and she just slid into the crowd like a ghost.
Her classroom—4 Cempaka was quiet when she entered. She took her usual seat at second row from the back, next to the window where she could see everything so clearly.
In the front row of the classroom that is where Jacob Islandar is sat with his eyes mostly focused on his worn out Qur'an that worn out from daily use. His lips moved softly as he traced over the verse with a pointer, very much absorbed each word with concentration.
He was one of the few people who had ever tried to talk to her and trying to know her. He was Half Malay, Half Egypt, his father was a local while his mother was Egyptian women who fell in love and married the father, he was fluent in 4 different languages—Malaysian, Arabic, English and Japanese, and he was very observant towards his surroundings. But Nurul would mostly ignore him.
"Assalamualaikum, Nurul," he said, not looking up, his hand still moving the pointer, tracing a verse as he spoke.
She paused, the silence was long then it had supposed to be.
"Waalaikumussalam..." She responded quietly, her eyes still stuck staring outside through the window.
He let out a smile. He wasn't offended, not all as he had accustomed to his classmates distance. But there's is something that always caught his attention, it was not about her silence but the way that she stared at her shadow as if they are whispering something to her ears. The way she always seemed like as it she was remembering something…
Jacob let out a small hum as he flipped to the next page and continued reciting, his voice was smooth and soft:
"Inna Allāha lā yaghfiru an yushraka bihi wa yaghfiru mā dūna dhālika liman yashā'..."
("Indeed, Allah does not forgive associating others with Him, but He forgives what is less than that for whom He wills…")—(Surah An-Nisa, 4:48)
Nurul blinked. Her eyes flicked toward him for just a moment.
He glanced up just now, only briefly, as if he had felt her attention.
"You're reading out loud now?" she asked, her voice barely audible, her eyes still on her desk.
He smiled faintly. "I always recite whenever something is about to stir. My father taught me that some verses sounds different when it was spoken, as if it wanted to be heard"
Nurul body stiffened slightly.
She didn't like that word: stirring.
Something had been stirring inside her for days and she doesn't know why.
The door creaked open.
Mr. Harun.
The math teacher.
The bringer of pain.
A collective groan swept through the class like a dying wave.
"Ughhh, it's math."
"Bro, it's three periods today."
"It's literally Monday, man. We're still mentally in Sunday."
"Absolute Cinema "
Another student lifted his face just enough to glare at the ceiling.
"Ya Allah, if you love me… let a pipe burst. Let a fire drill happen. Let there be something take this man out before the second period begins."
A few students chuckled. A pencil clattered to the floor. Someone whispered, "Amin."
"Good morning, children who hate mathematics," he said sarcastically.
"Yes, I saw the group chat. Yes, I know most of you prayed I wouldn't show up. Unfortunately for you, God listens selectively."
There was a mix of laughs and groans.
"Triple math today," he added cheerfully.
"Three whole periods of love, joy, and algebraic suffering. Just the way we like it on a Monday."
Nurul sat there quietly, flipping open her text book. Her fingers trembled slightly, but no one noticed.
Everyone else was still recovering from the backlash emotional trauma of realizing that it was a triple-period of math — on a Monday — with a teacher who graded their paper with vengeance was a personal hobby.
Afiq, whose spirit had really and clearly left his body by now, leaned close toward his friend with the seriousness of a man delivering a deathbed confession with theirs family.
"If I solve five questions today, I deserve a Nobel Prize in Suffering."
"That's not how Nobel Prizes work, Afiq."
"Shut up, Syafiq. Greatness can take many forms."
Nurul said nothing from the moment this class started. Her hand constantly hovered over her pen, but it didn't move. She wasn't laughing at the joke like the others student. Her gaze was flicked to the window, as if something outside was whispering her name constantly.
"Sir," said Alisa, raising her hand politely into the air. "Out of curiosity... how many students have died in your class?"
Mr. Harun raised an eyebrow.
"None," he replied to the question.
"But today's young generation is dramatic enough to make it feel like an active war zone."
The light flickered.
Just once.
Barely noticeable. Most students ignored it — assuming, as always, that the school's budget had finally caught up to its wiring.
Afiq groaned again in his seat at the back.
"You all see? Even the lights hate math."
Mr. Harun, unbothered, tapped his marker against the whiteboard. "Focus. If your attention span can survive TikTok, it can survive factorisation."
His head turned slightly, his eyes narrowing toward the light above Nurul's desk. It flickered again, but softer this time, as if it was breathing.
Nurul sat very still. Too still however.
Her hand, which had just been gripping her pencil, now had gone slack. The pencil rolled off the desk and fell with a soft clack onto the tile floor but she didn't move to pick it up.
She didn't move, not at all.
Her gaze had now drifted to the front, but she wasn't seeing the whiteboard or the teacher that busy explaining the topic. Her eyes were too still, too far. Her breathing had grown shallow—not labored, not panicked, but disconnected. Like her body was trying to remember what it meant to be here.
Jacob had noticed it. He always noticed everything first.
Jacob glanced over and his throat tightened ever so slightly.
He can see it. Nurul gaze fixed on nothing. Not the board. Not her book. Not even the teacher.
It was distant. Empty. Hollow
The classroom fan creaked once again. The atmosphere in the classroom suddenly felt heavier. Thicker. Like breathing through cloth.
Mr. Harun continued his lecturing, unaware, chalk dragging across the whiteboard with a long, tired screech.
Her breathing was shallow. Too shallow. Her shoulders were stiff. Her lips…
Were they moving?
Faintly. Almost like she was mouthing something that only she knows what was being uttered from her mouth.
Jacob's heart skipped a beat.
From the corner of the room, Afiq muttered under his breath.
"Ya Allah… why do I feel like my dua is about to backfire?"
Nurul inhaled sharply.
And the lights flickered once.
Twice.
Everything inside Jacob went cold.
Chapter One Ends