But Nu was still staring at the chair. It was empty again. But the cushion was pressed down, as if someone heavy had just stood up. And on the armrest, where Pak Haji’s hand used to rest, there were four deep, dark burn marks—like fingerprints left in ash.

"Bismillahirrahmanirrahim," he began, but his voice faltered. He glanced at a piece of paper Arman had handed him. A script. A tahlil script, shortened, bullet-pointed.

"Pak, ikut yang baru saja," he said. Follow the new way.

The old way. The long way. One hundred times.