CHAPTER 13 ( Part 2 )
1051 Words
For several long moments, Aizal remained standing in front of the newspaper archive.
The article still lingered in her mind.
A young man had donated the painting...
It had belonged to his late mother...
And he had specifically requested that it never be sold.
No name.
No address.
No photograph.
Only another unanswered question.
She quietly slid the newspaper back into its protective folder and returned it to the shelf.
"I suppose that's all for today," she murmured to herself.
The reading hall was almost empty now.
Only the soft ticking of the old wall clock echoed through the silence.
Aizal adjusted the strap of her handbag and turned toward the exit.
She had barely taken three steps—
Rustle...
A faint sound came from somewhere behind her.
She stopped.
Slowly, she looked over her shoulder.
Nothing.
The tall bookshelves stood exactly where they had been moments earlier.
The narrow aisles between them were empty.
For a brief moment, she simply watched.
Then she let out a quiet breath.
"I'm imagining things again."
She smiled faintly and resumed walking.
Before she reached the doorway—
Thud.
A soft sound echoed behind her.
This time she turned immediately.
One of the old newspaper folders lay on the wooden floor.
She frowned.
She was certain it hadn't been there a moment ago.
Walking back, she bent to pick it up.
The folder had fallen open.
A single yellowed newspaper page was visible inside.
Something caught her eye.
In the bottom corner of the page...
Someone had drawn a tiny five-petaled flower with a pencil.
Her heartbeat slowed.
It wasn't printed with the newspaper.
It looked as though someone had sketched it by hand years ago.
Exactly the same symbol...
The wooden box.
The exhibition painting.
And now...
This.
Almost without thinking, she traced the air above it with her fingertip.
She didn't touch the paper.
She simply stared.
"Miss?"
The sudden voice made her look up.
The librarian smiled politely from across the room.
"Did you find something?"
Aizal glanced back at the newspaper.
"...I think so."
She carefully lifted the page.
"I wanted to ask whether—"
Her words stopped.
The pencil mark was gone.
She blinked.
The corner of the page was completely blank.
No flower.
No sketch.
Nothing.
She turned the page over.
Then back again.
Still nothing.
"Is something wrong?" the librarian asked.
Aizal hesitated.
For a moment, she almost mentioned the symbol.
Instead, she slowly closed the folder.
"...No."
"I thought I saw something."
The librarian smiled kindly.
"Old newspapers can play tricks on tired eyes."
Perhaps.
Or perhaps not.
Aizal returned the folder to its place.
As she stepped outside the library a few minutes later, the cool afternoon breeze brushed against her face.
She unlocked her car but didn't start the engine immediately.
Her mind replayed the last few minutes again and again.
The symbol.
The newspaper.
The empty corner.
Had she really seen it?
Or had her mind connected patterns that weren't there?
She looked once toward the quiet library building through the windshield.
Somewhere inside...
One forgotten painting had led her to another unanswered question.
And she had the unsettling feeling...
That it would not be the last.By the time Aizal reached home, the sky had turned a deep shade of orange.
The familiar sound of birds returning to their nests drifted through the quiet evening air.
She parked the car in the driveway and stepped inside.
"Assalamu Alaikum."
"Wa Alaikum Assalam," her mother replied warmly from the living room. "You're home later than usual."
"I stopped at the library after the exhibition," Aizal said, placing her bag on the sofa.
Mrs. Hashmi smiled. "You must be tired. Dinner will be ready soon."
"I'll be upstairs for a little while."
Without waiting for another question, Aizal made her way to her room.
The moment she closed the door behind her, the silence returned.
Her eyes instinctively fell upon the wooden box resting on her desk.
For a few moments, she simply stood there.
The five-petaled flower carved into its lid looked no different than it had yesterday.
Yet somehow...
Everything about it felt different now.
She slowly walked over and placed both hands on the desk.
The painting at the exhibition.
The hidden symbol.
The article in the library.
The young man.
His late mother.
One clue after another...
Yet none of them answered the question that mattered most.
"What are you trying to tell me...?"
The whisper escaped before she even realised she had spoken.
Carefully, she lifted the lid of the wooden box.
The familiar paintbrush rested inside exactly as it always had.
She picked it up with unusual care.
This time, instead of looking at its carved flower, she began examining every inch of the handle.
The smooth wood bore the marks of age.
Tiny scratches.
Faded polish.
Places where years had quietly worn away the surface.
She slowly turned the brush between her fingers.
Nothing.
Another turn.
Still nothing.
Then...
Something caught the light.
Near the lower end of the handle, almost hidden beneath the faded varnish, were a few tiny engraved characters.
So faint...
They could easily be mistaken for natural marks in the wood.
Aizal carried the brush closer to the window where the remaining daylight was stronger.
Her heartbeat quickened.
She brushed away a thin layer of dust with her thumb.
The engraving became clearer.
06 September
Nothing else.
No year.
No initials.
No explanation.
Only a date.
Aizal frowned.
"Six September..."
She repeated the words quietly, trying to awaken a memory.
Nothing came.
She searched her thoughts.
Was it someone's birthday?
The date the brush had been made?
The day the box had been carved?
Or...
The day something had happened?
She looked at the brush once more.
The unanswered date seemed strangely deliberate.
As though someone had wanted it to be found...
But only at the right time.
Aizal reached for the notebook lying on her desk and carefully wrote down:
06 September
She stared at the words for several seconds before closing the notebook.
Outside, evening slowly surrendered to night.
The first stars appeared above the city.
Aizal gently returned the brush to the wooden box and closed the lid.
Her decision had already been made.
Tomorrow...
She would return to the library.
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