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  It was June 2027 when I arrived in the town of Ampang Jaya, tucked between Cheras and Batu Cave. 
I came not with a breaking story, but with a broken thread—an email, anonymous, disheartening account, that spoke of a girl named Zara. She was seventeen. She was dead. And no one asked why. Though her death was spoken of as inevitable, attributed to an irreversible illness, no one could ever quite name the affliction that carried her away.
Soon I realised I was entrusted to find out the truth by a student named Randy whose heart has sorrowfully shredded apart.  He has a deep dark blackhole-like pupils—it seemed as though his soul had been buried along with her. 
I came with the naive courage of a seeker. I left with the solemn wisdom of a witness. It became clear that Zara had never been ill—not in the way the world understood illness. 
There were quiet accounts—soft, almost reverent—shared by local nurses, who spoke of it only as a tragic end. Nothing more, nothing less.
Zara, the daughter of the Chief Elder of Ampang was not a headline. She was a silence. One of those young lives that ends not in drama, but in a kind of collective forgetting. 
Yet as I walked through her school, spoke to her classmates, drank bitter coffee with a grieving close friend, Randy whose hands trembled at the memory of Zara—I knew this was not a simple case. 
They said Zara had committed suicide. Others hinted at something darker—a quiet despair, a private anguish. But no one spoke clearly.