Negeri Sembilan was a place filled with warmth, the kind that came from the morning mist rising from the hills, the scent of wet grass after the rain, and the cheerful chatter of children walking to school. But for Siti Suhaili, those sounds grew fainter each day, as though the world around her was moving forward while she stood still.
Siti was just eleven years old, but her days had already become very different from other children her age. She lived in a big house, too big for a girl her size. Its walls stretched high and white, with windows that caught the afternoon sun and made the place glow from the outside. But inside, the rooms echoed with emptiness.
It hadn't always been this way.
When Siti turned ten, her parents had still been around. They celebrated her birthday with a small chocolate cake her mother baked. The frosting was uneven, but it was the most beautiful cake she had ever seen. Her father clapped his hands loudly as she blew out the candles, laughing at how her cheeks puffed out when she made her wish. That night, Siti's wish was simple—"I want my family to stay together forever."
For a while, it seemed possible. But just a month later, things began to change.
Her parents grew busier. At first, they came home late. Siti would sit by the window after dinner time, waiting for the sound of the gate creaking open, her heart leaping every time she heard footsteps on the road. But more often than not, the footsteps passed by, belonging to someone else's family.
Then they began missing meals altogether. The dining table, once filled with plates of rice, dishes of ayam masak merah, and bowls of steaming soup, was left bare. Sometimes Siti would set it up anyway, placing three plates and waiting, hoping. But the chairs remained empty, the food grew cold, and eventually, she would pack everything away with a heavy heart.
Soon, her parents stopped coming home for days at a time. The excuses they gave were short and rushed: "We're busy with work, Siti. Be a good girl, okay?"
And then, one day, the excuses stopped too.
By the time Siti turned eleven, she realized she was truly alone.
The house that once felt full of life now seemed to stretch endlessly, swallowing her in silence. The clocks ticked louder, the creaks of the floorboards sounded sharper, and even the wind brushing against the windows felt like whispers meant only for her.
She tried to keep things normal at first. Every morning, she woke up early, put on her school uniform, and tied her hair the way her mother had once taught her. She would sling her school bag over her shoulder, close the gate behind her, and walk to school.
But without her parents reminding her, without anyone asking how her day went, school began to feel less important. The teachers noticed she was distracted, the students whispered about how quiet she had become. Slowly, Siti stopped raising her hand in class, stopped joining group games, and stopped looking forward to recess.
By the end of the year, she stopped going altogether.
Home was no better. Each day, she had to do everything herself—washing her own clothes, sweeping the floors, cooking simple meals she barely knew how to make. She burned rice more than once, spilled water while boiling eggs, and cried in frustration as she cleaned up the mess.
Sometimes she sat in the living room and stared at the front door, hoping it would open, hoping her parents would walk in with tired but smiling faces. But it never happened.
At night, she would curl up under her blanket, hugging her pillow tightly. She told herself stories just to fall asleep, whispering in the dark as though speaking to an invisible friend. And every now and then, she thought she heard footsteps in the hallway—only to realize it was the sound of her own heartbeat echoing in her ears.
Siti Suhaili was only eleven, but she was already learning what it felt like to live in a house too silent, too empty, and too big for one little girl.