This chapter introduces Andrey, a transboy whose identity remains carefully wrapped, encased in the chrysalis of daily routine, quiet observation, and the modest interactions of a simple village life.

I wasn’t afraid of becoming a butterfly, but the world wouldn’t be ready for the colour.

A blue mountain bike crept slowly along a narrow dirt track, stitching its way through the patchwork of rice paddies. Its tyres bit into the dry earth—not yet turned to mud, but slick enough to betray the careless. To his left and right, the water in the fields lay still, reflecting the sky, as if waiting to see who would falter and fall in first.

The path was suffocatingly narrow, barely wide enough for a single bicycle. If someone approached from the opposite direction, one of them had to yield… or both would end up taking a dip in the paddy.

Andrey stopped pedalling when he reached a small shelter, a wakaf, perched by the bank of a river that flowed calmly beneath a wooden bridge connecting Kampung Nilam and Kampung Zamrud. He lifted his bike with practised care, stepping onto the wooden bench beneath the wakaf’s shade. He placed his faded navy denim rucksack beside him. For years, that bag had served him loyally, hauling his painting tools: brushes, paints, palette, easel, and canvas. It was his mobile studio, his anchor.

Stretching his arms, Andrey inhaled deeply. The evening breeze carried the scent of wet leaves and damp earth; he drank it in like a tonic. Across the river, the villagers' small gardens were organised with meticulous, military-like precision. In the distance, farmers—men and women—were busy ploughing and sowing. Their voices carried faintly on the wind, joking and laughing, as if the earth itself was breathing life back into tired hearts. Their sweat dripped onto the soil like a silent libation, feeding the seeds that were waking from their slumber.

“Weather’s lovely today.”

A friendly voice called out from the left. A girl in track pants and a worn-out long-sleeved checkered shirt—black and red plaid—approached. In her right hand, she carried a woven rattan basket.

“Hi…” A smile was exchanged, warm and unhurried.
“Hi, Kak Zu…” Andrey’s smile widened. “How are you today, sis?”

“If I were sick, lad, I wouldn’t be rotting in these fields.”
“Harvest season is coming up soon, isn’t it?”

“Hmm…” Kak Zu nodded. “You’re quick on the uptake, internet boy. Does this village even have a proper line?”

Kak Zu set the basket down on the floor of the shelter. “The village gossips’ mouths are faster than any broadband.”

She took off her straw hat and placed it by her side. The edges were a bit frayed, time-eaten, but it remained loyal, shielding her head from the sun’s vicious glare.

“Without this hat, I’d be satay,” she said with a lopsided grin. “A bit rotten… but like its owner, still pretty.”

Andrey chuckled softly at Kak Zu’s little drama with her straw hat. He had bought that hat himself, back when Kak Zu took him to the farmers' market in Pekan Mutiara two years ago. That was when they first met. He was a ghost then; she was a stranger, and that hat became the bridge to the intimacy they shared now.

The girl sank onto the bench beside him. “After the harvest, you won’t be here anymore.”

The silence seemed to grant permission for the wind to caress their hearts. It didn’t last long, but it was long enough for the breeze to whisper, and Andrey caught the tone of that whisper—a melancholy note that resonated in the hollows of his chest.

“That’s how it is, sis. The life of an army brat. Never staying in one place for long… not like a village chief’s son.”

Kak Zu turned her face. Her eyes sought Andrey’s.

“But it’s nice, isn’t it? Getting to see other people’s worlds. Long journeys, wide views. Village kids like me…” She smiled faintly. “…we only have this place.”

“Waiting for a husband to sweep you away,” Andrey teased.

“You’re sharp, you are.”
“When you find a soldier husband, you can go everywhere.”
“If the soldier’s like Arman.”
“Ha, if you have a son later, you can name him Andrey.”

Kak Zu looked at Andrey’s face. A thin smile graced her lips. “When I first met you, you were so quiet. Now you’re quite the joker.”

Her voice paused. Her eyes drifted to the horizon. Slowly, riding the wind, she whispered, “But now I have to move. Just remembered I need to restock.”

Andrey turned to look at Kak Zu, who was still staring into the distance. Whether at the horizon of the land or the horizon of her thoughts, he couldn't tell.

“His jokes are worse, you know,” Andrey replied, half-smiling.

“Lucky you… get to meet new people.”
“Sometimes I get tired of it, you know? Always getting moved to new schools.”
“Meet lots of people, make lots of friends.”
“Just acquaintances.”

“Is ‘sis’ an acquaintance or a friend?” Kak Zu asked, trying to guess the feeling. Yet the smile carved on her lips carried the same flutter in her chest.

In the midst of the banter, her heart was scouting for a space.

“My sister.”

The answer arrived without thought. Honest. Sincere.

Andrey, who never had a biological sister, truly valued Kak Zu’s presence as a replacement for something he knew he would never have.

“Haven’t heard anyone call me ‘sis’ like that in a while.”
“Doesn’t everyone call you ‘Kak Zu’?”

“Sounds different.” Andrey didn’t fully understand, yet he kept those words unknowingly. Maybe one day he would understand. Or… perhaps he didn't need to.

“What are you painting today?”
“Paint you, alright? As a modern peasant farmer. The Beauty Queen of Pekan Mutiara.”
“Pretty…” Andrey smirked. “Just like that straw hat.”

Kak Zu laughed out loud and slapped Andrey on the shoulder. “You really know how to win people over.” She stood up slowly, patting the back of her own clothes.

“Alright, I’m heading back. Need to stop by the shop for some pain relief patches. My body’s aching…”
“You need a massage, sis.”
“Before you leave this town, come see me, alright?”
“Why? Want a massage?”

“Aren't you cheeky?” Kak Zu winked, then left Andrey alone with his canvas.

𝄞

Kampung Nilam was situated in the district of Pekan Mutiara, surrounded by three or four other villages separated by small streams and irrigation canals. Cycling had become Andrey’s evening ritual. His heart never felt right if a day passed without him getting out for some air.

He loved listening to the stories of nature while inhaling the fresh air that paired with the beautiful panorama; a feast for the eyes, neatly framed in his memory.

Peaceful.

The town wasn’t just poor in development; it was poor in pollution, too. It was flawless. Only humans were the ones who usually marred perfection.

Admiring the majestic stretch of green and yellow fields that shifted with the seasons, Andrey liked to trace the irrigation canals from one to another. He enjoyed spending his evenings catching fish in the paddy fields, chatting with the farmers, men, women, old, and young. Andrey admired their spirit. They worked tirelessly on their lands and farms for the sake of survival.

Watching such hard work dedicated to their livelihood, awareness and motivation bloomed in Andrey’s soul, which was still crawling in its quest for the lessons of life.

After observing his surroundings and choosing a subject, Andrey began preparing his painting tools. That evening, he intended to capture the orange light on the horizon, blending with the green of the trees and the river water reflecting the sky.

This week was his last there.

“Soon, this place will be history.”

His father’s words from two months ago echoed in his ears. When that news was delivered, he hadn’t felt the slightest bit surprised. He was used to it. In fact, he was grateful that he could finally leave this small town.

But the width of his father’s smile brought another surprise.

He said, “This time, we’re going to our own house. Not government quarters anymore.”

The four of them looked at each other.

“Where are we going after this?” Andrian, his twin brother, demanded an explanation. They were thrilled; they couldn’t wait to know the next destination in the journey of life.

𝄢

Gazing at the reflection on the calm water surface, memories and experiences bubbled up one by one. A voice echoed in his heart.

It said, “Life is like a river. Calm on the surface. What happens underneath, people don’t know. But it keeps flowing regardless of flood or drought. It wants to reach the sea.”

Andrey saw himself like a spring just learning to trickle from the ground. Carrying along anything that fell into it. Flowing to become a shallow stream before drifting further, carrying more passengers.

Branches, leaves, wood, boats, animals.
Living or not. Anything.
The deeper it went, the more things sank. Only the light scum floated, drifting with the current.

Born there, crawling here. Walking in the north, running in the south. Sleeping in the east, waking in the west.

He had touched all eight corners of the earth. As early as five years old, he was already exposed to the diversity of communal life. Seeing first-hand the mosaic of races, the beauty of cultural fusion, the harmony of religious difference, and the elegance of tradition.

At the same time, he was also taught reality, how differences in class, status, and lifestyle could crack that beauty.

Yet every place he set foot in, every human he met, and every voice he heard taught him one thing: Every second is a space for learning. Every face is a mirror to know oneself.

Time had matured him with various perspectives, and he began to appreciate every difference not as an obstacle, but as an opportunity.

Listening more than speaking, he had grown accustomed to observing the ways, movements, and speech of the humans around him. Every gaze was stored in silence, every interpretation recorded in sketches and lines of verse.

Then, he summarised a simple conclusion in a poem: life is full of variations.
The world around him not only did he see, but he interpreted.
And every painting created, every verse written, was an echo to a voice he never spoke aloud.

The evening scene was nearly finished in colour on the canvas. Andrey drank some water, shifting his stance back a few steps to see his work more clearly before giving the final touch.

He smiled, satisfied and proud of his art.

“I’m really going to miss this place,” he said softly.

But his thoughts shifted to school. One place he always tried to avoid without ever succeeding.

“Finally, I managed to run away from that school,” he whispered again.

A thin smile rested on the edge of his breath.

Under the velvet sky, he knew...
The chrysalis doesn't remain.
But hatching isn't necessarily easy either.