Rain hit the roof like static.
Bawang Merah sat at the kitchen table, lit by a single lamp. She looked up as Putih entered, soaked and pale.
"Talk," he said.
She didn't pretend not to understand.
"I thought I could protect you," she whispered. "After the crash... you weren't right."
"You mean after Jahe died."
Her hands trembled around the mug.
"We buried him. I held your hand at the funeral. You didn't cry. You didn't even blink."
"I remember," he said.
"No," she said. "You don't. Not all of it."
She slid a folder across the table.
Hospital records. Photos. Notes.
Initial signs of dissociation. Self-dialogue. Responding to empty air.
Diagnosis: Delusional Disorder with Grief-Induced Psychosis.
Putih pushed the papers away.
"You think I made him up."
"I think you needed him."
A beat.
"And I think something else is using him to get close to you again."
He couldn't breathe.
He left the house. Ran down the street barefoot, into the rain, into the black.
He didn't know where he was going—only that he needed distance.
Jahe was waiting at the old bridge.
He didn't look surprised.
"You talked to her."
Putih nodded slowly.
"She says I'm sick."
"You are."
Putih blinked.
Jahe's voice was soft. "But that doesn't mean I'm not real