Spring returned quietly.
No dramatic sunrise. No thunderous signs.
Just the slow melt of frost, the first bird song at 5 AM, and the soft creak of the front gate as Bawang Putih stepped into the morning.
The house was silent now.
But no longer haunted.
Not by footsteps. Not by voices.
Just by absence.
He visited Jahe's grave once a week.
Never on the same day.
He brought different things: a comic they'd laughed at, a cassette they'd never finished, a cup of black coffee — no sugar.
And each time, he said something out loud.
Even if it was just:
"Hey."
Bawang Merah was healing too.
She smiled more now. Ate. Slept.
She never brought up that night — the open door, the broken look in her brother's eyes, or the way he sometimes stared at the mirrors a little too long.
She didn't need to.
Some things stayed between siblings. Buried like seeds.
Growing slowly. Quietly.
In shared silence.
On the day the rain returned, Bawang Putih opened the old box.
Inside: the photo of the three of them.
Jahe in the middle. Grinning. That same ridiculous shirt.
He looked at it for a long time.
Then, for the first time… smiled back.
That night, he dreamed.
He stood on the bridge again.
But this time, no fog. No forest.
Just starlight.
And Jahe beside him.
The real Jahe.
Laughing.
"About time you stopped sulking," his friend said.
Putih laughed. Or tried to.
"I thought you were gone."
"I am."
A pause.
"But I'm not lost."
Putih nodded.
"I think I understand now."
Jahe looked out over the water.
"You let me go?"
Putih breathed in.
And answered:
"No. I let myself remember."
When he woke up, the mirror in his room was still there.
And when he passed it, it showed only his reflection.
Just him.
But sometimes, when the light hit just right, he could almost hear footsteps behind him.
And feel a hand on his shoulder.
Not cold.
Not frightening.
Just familiar.