The first time they touched their foreheads together, it was still dark. Not the blackness of night that holds fear or hiding, but the soft, slow shade of something that comes before knowing. A hush that happens right before a whisper. The wind moved through the clay walls like an old song, tired and soft, and somewhere behind them, a candle gave up its light.
Abel did not speak. Neither did Musa. They kept their eyes closed as their heads leaned toward each other, brows brushing. Nothing more. That moment lasted only seconds, but they would both carry it like a deep pocket in the chest.
This was how it began.
The town was small, quiet, and pressed into the side of a dry hill. Its name was Itoro, meaning peace in an old tongue most people no longer spoke. Itoro had no traffic lights, no paved roads, and no reason to rush. The people rose with the sun and returned to sleep soon after the moon slipped behind the mountains. They believed in rhythms, in planting with the phases of the moon, in silence before storms, in blessings spoken over steaming pots of porridge.
They also believed in the clearing hour.
The clearing hour came just before first light, usually at 4:47 a.m. Each family, according to tradition, faced east during this time, kneeling wherever they were—on the veranda, near the chicken coop, or inside their huts. For 60 seconds, no one moved. No one spoke. It was believed that the air during that hour was thin enough for the ancestors to pass through. To breathe during that time, in silence, was to share space with them.
Abel had followed the ritual since boyhood. His mother taught him. His grandmother whispered the practice into his bones. Even after his wife died and the neighbors gave him space (some said too much), he still faced east every day, forehead tilted low, listening to the invisible.
Musa arrived in Itoro in the middle of fasting season. He came in dusty clothes, with a worn satchel full of dyed fabric and two books tied with coconut twine. He was not from the hills. His skin held salt from the sea, his accent curled upward, and his laughter came too easily. Most traders came and went within a week. Musa stayed.
He set up a fabric stall near the water well, where women gathered every morning. His colors were bold, loud even—saffron yellow, seafoam green, a kind of purple that looked like it should taste like berries. The women giggled when he greeted them with deep bows. Some of the older men frowned.
Abel saw him first from a distance, while buying groundnuts from the corner seller. Musa was laughing at something the well-woman said and dropped a full jug on his own foot. He danced around the pain dramatically, earning smiles. Abel turned away before he too could smile.
They met three days later. Musa collapsed near Abel’s front steps, dizzy and pale. The fasting had caught up with him. He had not eaten well, trying to show respect, and the heat finally folded him.
Abel opened the door, saw him there, and with a steady hand guided him inside. He gave Musa water, then porridge, then silence.
Musa, even in sickness, tried to make conversation. “I think your porch is magic,” he said between sips. “Only a magical man lives under a roof that cool.”
Abel raised an eyebrow.
“You don’t speak?” Musa tried again.
“Only when needed,” Abel replied.
“Oh. I talk too much then.”
“Yes.”
Musa chuckled, then winced. “I deserve that.”
Abel didn’t answer. But he did offer another bowl.
After that, Musa returned often. Not every day. But enough. He brought Abel small gifts—herbs from the market, sea glass, even a page torn from one of his books that had a poem he said “tasted like Abel’s eyes.” Abel said nothing about that one, but he didn’t throw it away either.
**
It was Musa who first suggested they meet before dawn. He had read about the clearing hour in one of the town books and wanted to understand it better. Musa found him on the porch, mending a basket in the fading light. He spoke then, voice low, as if afraid the neighbors might hear.
“You’ve done it all your life,” he said. “But I want to feel what it feels like, not just read the shape of it.”
Abel’s brow lifted. “Then,” he said, though he didn’t know why.
**
They met under the elbow tree, a dry stump shaped like a bent arm, just beyond the east edge of the town. It was quiet there. Wild goats avoided the path, and even birds kept away from its shadow. Musa arrived first, barefoot, holding a stone in each hand.
“Balance,” he said. “In case the ancestors require gifts.”
Abel stood beside him. Neither bowed. Neither gave instruction.
They just faced east.
And for the first time, at exactly 4:47 a.m., they leaned in.
Their foreheads touched.
No words. No hand gestures. Just breath, shared and slow.
A full minute passed.
Then they stepped back, bowed slightly, and walked away in different directions.
**
They did it again the next day. And again the day after that. They never agreed to do it again. It simply happened. Morning after morning, before the sun rose, they met under the elbow tree, touched foreheads, and parted. No words. No smiles. Just a sacred rhythm known only to the two of them.
**
But towns are not blind.
First came the glances. Then the muttering. A child saw Musa heading toward the east path barefoot and asked her mother why. The mother didn’t answer, just tightened her lips.
A neighbor noticed that Abel no longer prayed from his porch.
**
Then the whispers reached the council.
Itoro had a religious council, three elders and one scribe, who gathered weekly to review “matters of sacred discipline.” The council met under the old tamarind tree, speaking in low voices, often with their backs turned to the wind.
Abel was summoned.
He was not accused. Not directly.
The elder with the sharp nose asked, “Brother Abel, you’ve not been seen at porch prayer.”
Abel nodded.
“Are you unwell?”
“No.”
“Has your faith changed?”
“No.”
Silence stretched between them like a tight rope.
Another elder leaned in. “We heard you walk east. Alone.”
“I am not alone.”
They stiffened. “Who joins you?”
“I won’t say.”
“You must. This is a matter of public purity.”
Abel looked at the scribe. “Do the ancestors require witnesses?”
The scribe hesitated. “No. But the people do.”
Abel left without saying more.
**
Musa’s business suffered. His fabrics hung untouched. Children stopped laughing near his stall. One morning, he returned to find his dye pot broken, the red color soaking into the dirt like blood. No one saw. No one helped.
That night, Musa arrived at Abel’s hut, fists tight.
“I can’t stay,” he said. “They’ve decided I’m a stain.”
Abel stirred his tea, not looking up.
Musa waited. “Say something.”
Abel met his eyes. “Tomorrow?”
Musa sighed. “Of course.”
**
They reunited at 4:47 a.m., their usual meeting time.
Yet tonight, something felt different—the atmosphere quivered with tension. As if the wind had forgotten which way to blow.
**
The next morning, something was different. Not in the sky or the soil, but in the way Musa walked. His steps were lighter, quicker, like someone trying to outrun a shadow. Abel saw it. He didn’t speak.
Their foreheads touched, and for the first time, Musa’s eyes stayed open. Abel felt it—an alertness under the skin. Like a warning not yet spoken.
After the ritual, Musa didn’t leave right away. He waited until Abel turned, then reached out and held his arm.
“They marked your door,” he whispered.
Abel’s back straightened.
“With what?”
“A bone. Dyed black. Sharp. The kind used for burial carvings.”
Abel nodded once. “When?”
“Last night.”
“They waited long enough.”
Musa’s hand tightened. “We should leave.”
Abel looked past him, toward the hills. “And go where?”
Musa’s voice was low. “Anywhere that lets us keep our heads up.”
Abel didn’t answer.
**
They didn’t meet the next morning.
Musa waited. Then waited longer. When dawn passed, and the clearing hour ended, he returned to Abel’s hut. The door was slightly open. Inside, the small candle still burned. The same one from the first day.
But Abel was gone.
Musa searched the market. Then the council square. Then the elbow tree.
Nothing… only silence, pressing, until even his breath felt stolen.
**
At sunset, someone knocked on Musa’s door. A girl no older than eight, barefoot, with wide eyes. She handed him a folded cloth and ran away before he could speak.
The cloth was red. Deep, full-bodied red, like sunset soaked in wine.
It smelled like Abel.
Inside was a single black stone and a note in rough handwriting: One more morning. Just one.
Musa didn’t sleep.
He dressed before midnight. Wrapped the red cloth around his shoulders and walked barefoot to the elbow tree. The path was quieter than usual. No dogs barking. No wind.
At 4:40, he knelt alone.
Seven minutes felt longer than a lifetime.
Then, footsteps.
Abel arrived wearing white.
No words. No explanations.
They bowed. They leaned in. Foreheads pressed.
But this time, Musa’s lips moved.
He whispered something that no reader will ever know.
Abel blinked once. A soft breath escaped him.
Then, as the sun cracked the rim of the world, they stood.
Together.
But not alone.
Behind the tree, hidden in shadow, stood three robed figures from the council. Watching. Listening.
They stepped forward. No weapons. No loud voice.
Just presence.
Abel turned toward them. Musa stepped beside him.
The council leader, the one with the sharp nose, spoke first. “You were warned.”
Abel nodded. “I was.”
“Then why return?”
“This is the only place I can be clean.”
“And him?”
“He is the cloth I prayed for.”
The elder’s face did not change. “We cannot bless what we do not understand.”
“You don’t have to,” Musa said.
The scribe behind the elder scribbled without looking up.
“What will you do?” the elder asked.
Abel’s voice was firm. “We’ll leave.”
“Today?”
“Now.”
The elder nodded once. “Do not return.”
They didn’t.
**
The road out of Itoro curved like a long brown snake, disappearing into lowland valleys. No one traveled it on foot. Too far. Too dry. But they walked it anyway.
By midday, their feet blistered. By evening, their lips cracked. But they didn’t speak. Not because they were angry. But because words couldn’t hold what they carried.
**
That night, they found shelter in a dried-out chapel. The walls had fallen in. Only the roof remained. Inside was a circle of rocks once used for fire rituals. Abel sat beside it, staring into the empty pit.
“I used to think I’d die in Itoro,” he said quietly.
Musa lay beside him. “I used to think I’d never belong anywhere.”
They didn’t sleep much.
**
The second day was harder. Their water ran low. The sun grew sharp. But still, they walked.
Musa stumbled once, cutting his knee. Abel tore a strip from his sleeve to cover it. Musa smiled.
“You’ll have nothing left of your clothes at this rate.”
Abel shrugged. “Maybe that’s the point.”
**
When they reached the next town—a fishing village with bright boats and noisy children—they bought a room with the last of their coins. The innkeeper asked no questions. Just pointed upstairs.
That night, Musa found a mirror. He studied his own face in the mirror, not blinking, not moving, just watching. The seconds stretched as he stood there frozen.
Abel joined him.
“Do you think we’re safe?” Musa asked.
“I think we’re still here,” Abel replied.
They pressed their foreheads together once more, this time in a room lit by lantern light.
Not at 4:47 a.m.
Not under a dry tree.
But it still counted.
**
Back in Itoro, the elbow tree died.
Its bark cracked, its roots gave way. No birds nested in it anymore. The council said nothing. People avoided the path now. Too many whispers.
But on the anniversary of the disappearance, a child found two folded cloths at the base of the stump—one white, one red.
And in between them, a black stone.
No note. No name.
But from that day on, every year, someone placed a smooth stone at that spot.
Always before sunrise.
Always in silence.
The clearing hour continued.
But something had changed.
Not in the sky.
In the people.
They began facing east for two minutes instead of one.
As if there were more ancestors now.
As if something sacred had joined the wind.
**
The third village they entered welcomed strangers with folded palms. The seaside village carried the scent of salt and steaming corn, a place where folks minded their own business. Two strangers came in weary and starved, drawing little notice.
They took a cramped shack by the murky lagoon waters. It had one door, two sleeping mats, and no clock. It didn’t need one. Here, people woke when the birds cried and slept when the drums stopped.
For the first time in a long time, Abel slept through the night.
Musa, though, stayed awake.
He spent his nights staring at the ceiling, listening to the water lap against the shore, thinking about rituals. Not the kind they left behind, but the ones they now made. Quiet ones. Shared meals. Braiding each other’s hair. Dipping their fingers into river water before they prayed.
No candles.
No bones.
Only breath.
Only hands.
**
The villagers kept their own traditions. Each full moon, as the tide swelled highest, they’d wade barelegged into the shallows, clutching little earthen jars of next season’s promise. They would whisper wishes into the pots, then let them float away with the water.
Musa was invited to join.
He asked Abel if he would come.
Abel shook his head. “Some things I’ve already wished for.”
So Musa went alone. The village elder, a woman with silver eyebrows and a strong voice, handed him a pot. “Only speak what you truly want.”
He thought carefully.
Then said, “I want to be forgotten by the place I came from. And remembered by the one I’ve found.”
He placed the pot on the water. It floated, slowly turning. Moonlight caught it at the perfect angle, flickering briefly like a candle’s weak glow before fading.
The elder smiled. “You’ve spoken well.”
**
Months passed.
The town became home.
Musa carved wooden spoons and sold them in the market. Abel taught letters to children on dusty slates.
Every evening, they walked together—past the fishermen, past the coconut stalls, past the laughing girls who knew but never said.
One day, Musa painted a thin red line on the doorframe of their hut. When Abel saw it, he paused.
“You remembered.”
“Every morning,” Musa said.
They bowed to each other quietly, touching foreheads.
No council.
No clearing hour.
Only the ritual they had claimed as theirs.
**
But peace doesn’t mean forgetting.
One evening, a traveling merchant from the north arrived. He brought stories, spices, and old cloths. He also brought news.
“They’ve changed the clearing hour in Itoro,” he told a group near the fish stalls. “Now it’s six minutes.”
“Why?” a girl asked.
“No one knows. Some say the old tree cursed the council.”
Others laughed.
Musa heard it all. His hands froze over the spoon he was carving.
Abel looked up from the reading slate and met his eyes.
“Do you want to go back?”
“No,” Musa said.
But that night, they didn’t speak.
**
Later, in the dark, Abel finally said, “If we die here, who will remember us?”
“You will remember me,” Musa replied.
“That’s enough?”
“It’s more than most people ever get.”
They held hands in silence.
**
On the anniversary of their arrival, the village invited them to lead the tide ritual.
This time, they floated two pots.
Musa whispered into his, “Let me be a root in this place.”
Abel whispered into his, “Let me be the water that carries him.”
The pots drifted out side by side.
They never sank.
**
Five years passed.
Then ten.
Their hair turned silver.
Their backs bent.
But every morning, they still touched foreheads.
No longer at 4:47.
Just before breakfast.
At dawn, Abel didn’t stir.
Musa discovered him peaceful, one palm resting on his chest, the ghost of a grin lingering.
No pain. No sound. Just stillness.
He didn’t cry right away.
He bathed Abel in river water. Dressed him in the same white cloth he had worn that last morning in Itoro.
Then he painted the doorframe red one final time.
At dawn, the village followed him to the lagoon. They stood in silence as he set a clay pot into the water.
He didn’t whisper into this one.
He had already said everything.
The pot floated longer than any had before. It turned slowly, like it remembered.
When it disappeared over the edge of the tide, Musa whispered one word.
“Enough.”
Then turned home.
**
Musa lived six more years.
He carved no more spoons.
Taught no more children.
But every morning, he stood by the doorframe, touched the red paint, and whispered a name.
Then sat quietly, listening for a voice only he could hear.
When he finally passed, the villagers didn’t weep.
They sang.
They touched their own foreheads to their neighbors’.
They floated two pots into the sea.
One red.
One white.
And every year after that, when the tide reached its highest point, they told the story of the two strangers who changed what rituals meant.
They didn’t speak of where the men had come from.
Only what they had brought.
A way of remembering.
A way of becoming.
A way of touching without fear.
**
Back in Itoro, the clearing hour still happened.
But no one really knew why anymore.
The elbow tree was gone. The council had changed. The market no longer sold clay pots.
But every now and then, someone painted a doorframe red.
No one knew where the tradition came from.
But it made people pause.
Just for a moment.
And face east.
Together.
In silence.
About the Author:
Fendy is an art worker from Malang, Indonesia. He works with words and music to explore how time feels different to people and how connections linger even when they’re gone. By day, he sells motorcycles, and by night, he creates moody music as Nep Kid while writing stories in different forms. His work often lives in the space between words and true feelings, searching for ways to capture what is usually left unspoken.
Isele Magazine 