Bapak — Maiyam

1. The Inheritance Rizal never believed in ghosts. As a structural engineer in Kuala Lumpur, he dealt in steel, concrete, and physics. So when his estranged father, Pak Hamid, died and left him a small, rotting wooden house in the Perak riverine jungle, Rizal nearly burned the will.

The ledger contained names—hundreds of them—each crossed out in red. At the bottom of the last page, in his father’s shaky handwriting: “Borrowed 192 kilos of tin from Bapak Maiyam, Year of the Rust Moon. Interest: one soul per decade. Failed to pay. Now Maiyam comes for the son.” Rizal laughed. Then the lamp lit itself. That night, rain fell—not from clouds, but from the ceiling’s shadows. A figure emerged from the corner: tall, skeletal, dressed in a colonial-era postman’s uniform. His face was a smooth, pale mask with no mouth, only two coin-slits for eyes. bapak maiyam

The rain stopped. The house smelled of old wood and forgiveness. Rizal didn’t burn the house. He turned it into a small museum— Rumah Bapak Maiyam —with the ledger behind glass. Sometimes, on the anniversary of the seventh rain, visitors claim the lamp flickers, and a mouthless figure can be seen writing new names: not of debtors, but of the forgotten. So when his estranged father, Pak Hamid, died

Rizal leaves a bowl of fermented tapioca by the door every year. Interest: one soul per decade

Maiyam didn’t want Rizal’s soul. He wanted .

Maiyam paused. For the first time, his mask cracked. A single tear of black ink rolled down.