Sunday Short: The Alley Doesn’t Forget

Before Azim, there was Hafiz.

And Hafiz was the kind of guy your parents warned you about—charismatic, clever, and completely rotten inside.

He thrived in the backstreets of Ampang Jaya—picking pockets, cheating tourists, running petty scams. He always wore the same olive green corduroy pants, swearing they were his “lucky pair.” And truth be told, they were lucky. No matter what mess he got into, Hafiz always walked away clean.

Until he didn’t.

It was just another Wednesday when Hafiz picked his last victim.

She was small. Maybe nineteen. Lost-looking. Thai accent. Alone. He offered to help her find a nearby hostel. Led her through alleys. Smiled charmingly.

But she wasn’t lost.

And she wasn’t alone.

When they reached the end of a dead alley behind a kopitiam, he reached for her bag. That’s when he heard the first brick hit the ground behind him.

Four men stepped out of the shadows. Silent. Calm.

Hafiz tried to run, but his pants snagged on a loose nail. He turned to fight.

Only one blow landed.

He didn’t die quickly.

They said he gurgled like a drain, one eye swollen shut, his lucky pants soaked in a mix of blood and wet alley sludge. When the final brick came down, something… snapped—not just his skull, but something deeper. The sound echoed, sharp and unnatural.

By the time the men disappeared, there was nothing left of Hafiz but a pulpy mess and those damn corduroys.

The pants didn’t even tear.

A week later, a junk collector found them and tossed them into a donation pile.

From there, they passed from hand to hand—until they ended up in a RM2 bin near Klang.

But Hafiz wasn’t done.

See, what Hafiz didn’t know is this: when your life is built on rot, your death can’t cleanse you.

You don’t get peace.

You get trapped.

Bound to the one thing you loved most. The one thing you thought made you invincible.

For Hafiz, it was the pants.

That’s why he clings. Why he screams through dreams. Why he panics when someone tries to destroy them.

Because deep down, he knows.

He deserves worse.

And yet…

he still doesn’t want to go.

Some threads carry memories. Others carry what’s left of a man who couldn’t let go.