clandestine.

one.

The early hours of March 2020 were interrupted by insistent knocks at my door, jolting me awake. With a racing heart, I stumbled out of bed and cautiously approached the door, my mind racing with questions about who could be visiting at such an unearthly hour.

While it might seem normal to some, the idea of an unexpected visitor in the dead of night sent shivers down my spine, especially as a young woman living alone in a modest apartment in Russia. The streets outside were eerily quiet, adding to the sense of unease that crept over me.

Living in this foreign country to pursue my degree on a full scholarship had its challenges, particularly since I couldn't afford student housing and had to settle for this solitary apartment. My former roommate had long since moved on, leaving me to navigate the isolation of my surroundings with only fleeting friendships to keep me company.

Summoning my courage, I cautiously opened the door, expecting to find someone standing there. But to my bewilderment, there was no one in sight. Just as I was about to retreat back into the safety of my apartment, my eyes fell upon a nondescript box resting on the doorstep.

Puzzled and a little apprehensive, I bent down to inspect the package. It was neither heavy nor light, but something about its presence sent a chill down my spine. With trembling hands, I retrieved the box and hastily retreated indoors, securing the door behind me with a sense of urgency.

"What on earth is this?" I murmured to myself, my imagination running wild with all manner of possibilities, none of them reassuring. Despite my trepidation, curiosity got the better of me, and I fumbled to open the box, my heart pounding in my chest.

As the lid swung open, a gasp escaped my lips at the sight before me. Nestled within the confines of the box lay a photograph, its edges frayed with age. In the dim light of my apartment, I could just make out the features of a man I scarcely knew—my father.

In the photograph, he stood tall and proud, clad in the uniform of a Russian spy. Memories of him flooded my mind, memories tainted by the regret of a relationship left unexplored. Despite our limited interactions over the years, his absence had loomed large in my life, a constant reminder of what could have been.

But as I stared at the photograph, a newfound sense of determination coursed through me. This mysterious delivery was more than just a relic of the past; it could be a sign.

What was it.

———

"What's up, Malay material girl?"

I turned my head to the left and saw Anastasia grabbing a chair to join me for lunch. I shifted over a bit to make room for her on the bench.

Anastasia, a German girl and one of my foreign friends, sat down. She was 20 years old, a year older than me.

"Not much, you?" I replied.

She tapped her index finger on her upper lip, contemplating. "Yesterday, I went on a date with that new Arab guy, Mahmed. He's really decent and funny. I like him."

I rolled my eyes. Anastasia always went on 'dates' with guys from our college, claiming each time that she had found her 'real man.' It had happened countless times before.

"Oh, really?" I said, trying to sound interested.

But Anastasia was still excited, as always. Anything seemed to make her happy.

"Anyway, Chempaka, are you going back to Malaysia to celebrate Eid?" she asked.

I loved the way she pronounced my name in her accent. Truth be told, I preferred my friends calling me Chempaka rather than my full name, Chempaka Sofia, which they struggled to pronounce.