The Letter That Was Never Finished
“Hana… it turns out your father didn’t die five years ago.”
I didn’t answer right away.
Zayyen’s voice was still coming through the phone, but my mind seemed to stop working.
I looked at Mom.
Her face was pale.
Her hand was still gripping the edge of the old letter I had just read.
“Mom…”
My voice was barely audible.
Mom didn’t answer.
“Mom, look at me.”
Slowly, she lifted her face.
I searched for a denial.
Just one sentence that could make everything go back to the way it was.
But there was none.
All I saw were the eyes of a woman who looked like she had been carrying something alone for far too long.
“What Zayyen said—is it true?”
Mom drew a breath.
“I don’t know.”
I fell silent.
“You don’t know?”
“After that night, I never saw your father again.”
“Then why has everyone been saying Dad died all this time?”
Mom lowered her head.
“Because back then… someone said it would be safer that way.”
“Safer for whom?”
Mom didn’t answer.
I stood up.
My chest was starting to feel tight.
“Mom, I’ve spent five years believing Dad was dead.”
Tears fell from her eyes.
“I know.”
“For five years, I learned to accept something that might not even be true.”
“I know, Hana.”
“Why?”
Mom covered her face for a moment.
“Because you were too young back then.”
“I have the right to know now.”
Mom looked at me.
“Are you sure?”
I fell silent.
“Because once you know everything,” she said softly, “your life won’t go back to the way it was before.”
I looked at the letter on the table.
A letter from Dad.
A letter I hadn’t known existed all these years.
“I haven’t been living the way I used to since Zayyen came into my life.”
Mom fell silent.
I was surprised myself to hear those words leave my mouth.
Not because Zayyen was the cause of all these problems.
But because ever since I met him, pieces of the past that had been buried all this time had begun to surface, one by one.
I contacted Zayyen again.
“Hello?”
“Hana.”
“I talked to Mom.”
“How did it go?”
“She didn’t deny it.”
Zayyen fell silent.
“She couldn’t confirm that my dad is still alive, either.”
“I don’t have proof yet, either.”
“Then why did you say he might still be alive?”
“Because Haris is looking for someone.”
“And you think that person is my father?”
“I don’t know yet.”
I let out a sigh.
“Zayyen.”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t give me hope when you’re not even sure yourself.”
His voice grew quieter.
“I didn’t mean to.”
“I know.”
I sat down.
“I just… don’t know what to believe.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t.”
I regretted the words as soon as they left my mouth.
But Zayyen didn’t get angry.
“You’re right,” he said. “I don’t know what it feels like to wait for someone for five years without knowing whether you should miss them or let them go.”
I fell silent.
“All I can do is keep you company while we look for the answer.”
This time, I didn’t respond with words.
I simply closed my eyes.
For some reason, that simple sentence felt more comforting than all the promises someone could possibly make.
The night grew later.
Mom had already gone to her room.
I was still sitting in the living room.
Dad’s letter lay in front of me.
I read it again.
> Hana, if you’re reading this letter, it means someone from our past has returned.
I stopped.
The name was written clearly.
Hana.
There was no mistake.
There was no possibility that this letter was meant for someone else.
I turned the page.
At the bottom was a short note.
> Don’t give this letter to anyone before the time is right.
Beneath it was a date.
Five years ago.
I furrowed my brow.
If Dad had written this letter five years ago, then he must have anticipated that something would happen.
But what?
I picked up my phone.
Hana: Zayyen, can you send me the photo of the document you found again?
A photo came in not long afterward.
I opened it.
The old document was unchanged.
There were several names.
Signatures.
Dates.
And a code:
A-15.
I zoomed in on the image.
Then I looked at the date.
I compared it with the date on Dad’s letter.
They were the same.
My heart began to pound.
I reopened our conversation.
Hana: The date on your document is the same as the date on Dad’s letter.
Zayyen’s reply came a few moments later.
Zayyen: I just realized that too.
Hana: What does A-15 mean?
Zayyen: I don’t know yet.
I let out a sigh.
We had far too many questions and far too few answers.
But at least this time, we weren’t trying to guess alone.
I stared at the document.
Then something caught my attention.
There was a small symbol in the bottom corner.
I had seen that symbol before.
I got up from my chair.
I walked to the bedroom.
I opened Dad’s old drawer.
Inside were several things I had barely touched all these years.
A pen.
A watch.
A family photo.
And a black book.
I picked it up.
The first page was blank.
The second page was blank.
The third page was blank too.
I was about to close it.
But a small piece of paper fell out from the middle of the book.
I picked it up.
It was in Dad’s handwriting.
I recognized it immediately.
> “If Hana ever meets that family, don’t let them know this book still exists.”
I froze.
That family.
I knew who he meant.
Zayyen’s family.
My hands began to grow cold.
Dad had known there was a chance I would meet Zayyen’s family.
Even before I knew Zayyen.
I read the sentence again.
Why?
What had really happened between them?
I quickly took a picture of the paper.
Before sending it to Zayyen, I stopped.
If Dad had deliberately hidden this book, maybe I shouldn’t show it to anyone right away.
Not even Zayyen.
For the first time, I realized that searching for the truth also meant learning when to stop sharing things.
I put the paper back.
Then I looked at the book’s first page.
Blank.
Completely blank.
Or maybe not.
I picked up a pencil.
Slowly, I shaded the surface of the page.
The impressions of writing began to appear.
I stopped breathing.
A sentence slowly emerged.
DON’T TRUST HARIS.
I took a step back.
Haris.
The name that had kept appearing in this story from the very beginning.
The man who helped Zayyen’s family.
The man who had a connection to his father.
The man searching for someone from the past.
And now
my own father had once written that I shouldn’t trust him.
I immediately contacted Zayyen.
He answered after a few seconds.
“Hana?”
“Zayyen…”
“What’s wrong?”
I stared at the writing in the book.
“I found something.”
“What?”
I hesitated.
Then I said,
“Haris’s name.”
Silence.
“What did you find?”
“Dad wrote something about him.”
“What?”
I drew a breath.
“He wrote that I shouldn’t trust Haris.”
There was no answer.
“Zayyen?”
“I’m still here.”
His voice had changed.
It was heavier.
“I found something too.”
“What?”
“At Haris’s house.”
I waited.
“An old photo.”
“Whose photo?”
“My father’s.”
I fell silent.
“And your father.”
My heart began to beat faster.
“What’s in the photo?”
“I’ll send it.”
A few seconds later, a photo came in.
I opened it.
Two men stood side by side.
My father.
Zayyen’s father.
I zoomed in on the photo.
But there was someone else behind them.
A young boy.
I recognized him immediately.
Zayyen.
Much younger.
I stared at the photo without blinking.
“Zayyen…”
“Yeah.”
“You were there.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
“I don’t remember.”
I fell silent.
“That photo was taken five years before we met.”
Five years.
I stared at Zayyen’s young face.
If the photo was real, then our families had known each other long before Zayyen and I sat in the same class.
Long before an empty seat brought us together.
Long before I began to entrust his name to prayer.
“Zayyen…”
“Hmm?”
“What if our meeting really wasn’t a coincidence?”
He didn’t answer right away.
Then I heard his voice.
“If that’s true, I don’t want us to let the past decide what we’re supposed to feel now.”
I fell silent.
The sentence was simple.
But it made me realize there was something we needed to protect.
Whatever our parents had done,
it wasn’t our sin.
And whatever had happened in the past
it didn’t automatically determine who we were today.
“I agree,” I said.
Silence.
Then Zayyen said,
“Hana.”
“Yeah?”
“If it turns out your father is still alive…”
I waited.
“…would you want to look for him?”
Tears fell from my eyes.
“I don’t know.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m scared.”
“What are you afraid of?”
I looked at Dad’s letter.
“I’m afraid I’ll find someone I’ve missed all this time…”
I stopped.
“…but it turns out he isn’t the person I remember.”
Zayyen didn’t answer.
Then he said softly,
“Then we don’t have to look for the father in your memories.”
I wiped away my tears.
“We’ll look for the person he really is.”
I smiled faintly.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For never forcing me to believe.”
“And you?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you still trust me?”
I fell silent.
I wanted to answer quickly.
But I didn’t want to lie.
“I’m learning.”
Zayyen let out a soft laugh.
“Honest answer.”
“What were you expecting?”
“Nothing.”
“Good.”
“I actually prefer you to say that.”
We fell silent.
There were no words of love.
No promises.
But that night, I realized that maybe trust doesn’t grow because someone says,
“Trust me.”
It grows because someone gives us room to choose.
Before going to bed, I opened the black book again.
I turned to the next page.
Blank.
The next page.
Blank.
Until finally, I found a page that was different.
There was a date.
August 15.
I recognized it.
The same date appeared in the old photo.
I read the small writing beneath it.
> “If they find Hana, everything will start again.”
I froze.
They.
Who?
I stared at the writing for a long time.
Then my phone vibrated.
A message from Zayyen.
Not text.
A photo.
I opened it.
A photo of an old room.
There was a small sign on the wall.
I zoomed in on the image.
The sign read:
Rumah Sakit Muzi.
The place where Mom used to work.
The place Dad had once visited.
The place where Zayyen’s family had once been.
And beneath the photo, Zayyen sent one sentence:
“Hana, I found the same date in the hospital archives.”
I stared at the screen.
My heart pounded faster.
Then another message came in.
“There’s one name recorded there.”
I waited.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Then a name was sent.
My father’s name.
My hands instantly went weak.
I hadn’t even had time to reply when the final message came in.
“And that name was recorded not as a patient.”
I stared at the screen.
Unable to move.
Because for the first time, the possibility that my father was still alive felt like more than mere hope.
It was beginning to have a trail.
And that trail was leading us back to one place everyone had spent years trying to forget.
Rumah Sakit Muzi.
TO BE CONTINUED — EPISODE 10