His silhouette.
In the kitchen.
Back slumped on the chair, cane in one hand.
Unmoving.
Maybe, ever since nenek died his heart was still. As still as that night was. At that point of time in my mind I thought "no, that cannot be my Atok". I remember running away, running into my mum's room. I felt scared. Scared of my own grandpa whom I had lived with ever since I was a kid. 2, maybe? Looking back, I now feel ashamed for running away, I feel that I was being selfish. But I was a kid then and what did I know? For he had lost the person his mind would always think about and his heart had cared and survived for. His wife whom he had by his side ever since they came to Singapore to start a life together. They came from Indonesia with nothing. Nothing but the clothes on their backs. Nothing but each other to build a life and a home together. Now that she's gone, I'm sure that his heart feels empty. Empty....but yet heavy at the same time, of having to carry on life alone. He passed away about 3 months after she did.
This is a reminder, to no one but myself. This home went from nine to eight. To six.
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