The heavy thuds of boots echoed on the dirt path.
Aman froze. From behind the tall grass, he could hear them. Japanese soldiers, marching in step, their boots crunching the earth in eerie rhythm.
Then, came the song haunting and proud sung in unison:
"Banda no sakura ka eri no iro
Hana wa Yoshino ni arashi fuku
Yamato oko to umare naba
San heisen no hana to chire..."
Bootsteps.
"Shakuyo no jū wa buki narazu
Sun'yo no tsurugi nani ka sen
Shirazu ya koko ni ni sen nen
Kitae kitae shi yamatodamashii..."
Aman crouched low, Mei Lian close beside him. They could see the Japanese troops now marching through the clearing, rifles slung, a few even riding motorbikes. Tanks rolled behind them, dust clouds rising.
Two weeks had passed since Jitra fell. Two long, desperate weeks of hiding, fishing, and hunting to survive.
Aman glanced at Mei Lian. She looked tired, but sharper. Stronger. And somehow, he had managed to keep his promise to her mother.
Back in a small hut, left behind by Lieutenant Henry, Aman had found supplies: a worn-out map, a compass, a few tools, and a snub-nosed revolver with a handful of bullets. Aman had chuckled at the irony.
"For a man so suicidal," he had muttered, "Henry sure packed like he wanted to live."
Now, the supplies were keeping them alive.
That night, after the soldiers had passed, Aman and Mei Lian made camp. A pot simmered over a small fire. Inside, two birds Aman had managed to catch boiled with nothing more than water and salt.
Aman studied the map as the firelight danced across his face.
"Two weeks since the bloodbath at Jitra… Now Gurun and Alor Setar have fallen too." He sighed. "Penang's on the verge of collapse."
Mei Lian handed him a bowl of soup. "Here. Calm down, eat."
Aman took it gratefully and sat by the fire. The heat helped, but the weariness never left.
"We'll pass through Kampar soon. Maybe we can catch some transport to Singapore from there. It's a long shot, but it's all we've got."
Mei Lian smiled faintly, her voice soft. "It's almost the new year. Back home in China, it'd be snowing now…"
Aman chuckled. "Snow, huh? Sounds nice."
"It's cold. You wouldn't survive," Mei Lian teased. "Not with the rags we're wearing. And don't forget my boots are stolen from a dead soldier and three sizes too big."
Aman laughed. "Hey, they protect your feet. Better than bleeding with every step, right?"
They shared a quiet moment, just watching the flames dance.
Then Kampar.
They arrived to find the town preparing for a stand. British troops were setting up defenses; trenches were being dug, machine gun posts reinforced. Kampar would soon become a battleground.
Aman clicked his tongue. His eyes scanned the crowd part soldiers, part refugees. Somewhere out there, maybe his father was here. He'd heard rumors of a Malay nurse traveling with the Japanese, patching up soldiers from battle to battle. Could that really be his father?
War had a way of twisting people, he realized. Even his own thoughts had shifted. He was more cautious now, more calculated. Pragmatic.
"Hey, Aman! Let's go!" Mei Lian called from ahead. "I hope they have real food! I don't want to eat another boiled sparrow!"
He smirked, her voice breaking the heaviness in his chest. She could nag, she could demand but her presence kept him grounded.
In times like these, having someone beside you was a rare luxury.
Aman adjusted the strap on his back, tucked the map under his arm, and followed her.
Together, they walked toward the British camp toward whatever hope might still be waiting there.