By Week Three, Republic Polytechnic stopped feeling quiet.
Not because classes changed.
But because the campus did.
The shift happened right after dismissal on Monday afternoon.
At first, it was sound.
A deep, rhythmic thud echoed faintly through the corridors — not loud enough to be disruptive, but impossible to ignore.
Drums.
Hidayah paused at the top of the stairs outside W3, backpack settled securely on her shoulders, and listened.
She hadn't heard that sound in years.
And yet, her body recognised it instantly.
As she stepped into the Agora, the source revealed itself.
Interest Group booths.
They had arrived all at once, spreading across open spaces, lining walkways, filling areas that had once been nothing more than shortcuts between buildings.
Banners fluttered.
Music spilled into the air.
Clusters of seniors moved through the crowds wearing uniforms, costumes, even full cosplay.
Some carried instruments.
Some carried weapons — blunt practice swords, training staves, bows carefully unstrung.
And some wore massive advertisement boards strapped to their fronts and backs.
"JOIN US."
"TRY NOW."
"SIGN UP TODAY."
Jasmine appeared beside her, tote bag swinging lightly.
"Why does this feel like a carnival?" she asked.
"Because it kind of is," Hidayah replied.
They stood still for a moment, watching the crowd flow past them.
Students who usually rushed for buses now lingered.
Laughed.
Stopped.
This was campus life finally revealing itself.
The girls moved slowly, letting curiosity dictate their path.
A drumline thundered nearby, vibrations humming through the ground.
A group in elaborate costumes posed for photos.
Someone sang.
Someone else danced.
"Do these seniors ever get tired?" Jasmine asked, half in awe.
"Probably," Hidayah said. "They just don't show it."
They drifted from booth to booth, stopping when something caught their interest, moving on when it didn't.
Hidayah watched more than she spoke.
In her first life, she had rushed this part.
Signed up quickly.
Moved on.
This time, she allowed herself to feel the moment.
The noise.
The energy.
The sense of choice.
She felt it before she saw it.
A shift in the air.
The Puncak Silat booth occupied a small open space near the edge of the Agora.
Mats were laid out neatly.
Seniors stood poised, bodies relaxed but alert.
When the demonstration began, everything else faded.
Movements were sharp.
Grounded.
Each strike flowed into the next with precision and restraint.
There was no unnecessary force.
Only control.
Hidayah stopped walking.
Her breath slowed.
Her stance adjusted unconsciously, weight settling properly through her feet.
Her body remembered.
Not the version of herself from her first life.
But the girl who had trained since childhood.
A senior noticed her stillness.
"Interested?" he asked once the demonstration ended.
"Yes," Hidayah replied.
No hesitation.
No need to consult Jasmine.
She took the pen and signed up on the first day.
As she stepped aside, Jasmine raised an eyebrow.
"That was fast."
"I already know what I want," Hidayah said.
And she did.
That evening, neither of them rushed home.
They explored more booths, laughter bubbling easily now that the initial overwhelm had faded.
When hunger finally caught up to them, they followed the flow of students toward one of the canteens.
Food tasted better eaten slowly.
Conversation stretched comfortably.
"I didn't think I'd stay back," Jasmine admitted, poking at her meal. "But this is… fun."
Hidayah nodded.
It was.
They talked about the booths they'd seen — the ridiculous ones, the impressive ones, the ones that surprised them.
Jasmine's attention kept drifting toward performance-based groups.
Live singing.
Small acoustic sets.
Spontaneous harmonies breaking out between booths.
"You're joining something musical," Hidayah said.
Jasmine shrugged, smiling. "Maybe."
The second day was louder.
Word had spread.
More students stayed back.
More seniors showed up.
The drums overlapped with music.
Cheers erupted when performances peaked.
Hidayah explored more deliberately this time.
She asked questions.
Listened carefully.
Still, she didn't sign up for anything else.
Not yet.
She had learned that saying yes too quickly often meant saying no to something better later.
Dinner that night was noisier.
"I feel like we're actually students now," Jasmine said, leaning back in her chair.
Hidayah watched the crowd around them.
Friendships forming.
Confidence blooming.
"This is how it's supposed to feel," she said softly.
By the third day, Hidayah knew exactly where she was going.
The Archery booth sat slightly apart from the rest.
Calmer.
Quieter.
Bows rested neatly on stands.
Arrows were aligned with meticulous care.
Seniors spoke in measured tones, explaining form, focus, discipline.
Hidayah listened intently.
This was stillness.
Precision.
Control without force.
Her kind of space.
She signed up without fanfare.
Day Three. Exactly as planned.
As she stepped aside, Jasmine lingered nearby, gaze fixed on another booth.
Microphones.
Music stands.
A group of seniors harmonising effortlessly.
"Choir?" Hidayah asked.
Jasmine startled, then laughed. "Is it that obvious?"
"Very."
Jasmine hesitated.
Just for a second.
Then she stepped forward.
When she returned, sign-up complete, she looked almost shy.
"I joined," she said.
Hidayah smiled.
As evening settled, booths began to pack up.
Music softened.
Energy slowly ebbed, leaving behind a pleasant exhaustion.
They had dinner together one last time on campus, neither of them rushing.
No pressure.
No urgency.
Only the quiet satisfaction of having chosen — consciously, deliberately — something for themselves.
At the bus stop, the night air felt cooler.
Bus 169 arrived.
They took their usual seats near the back.
"I feel… lighter," Jasmine said, staring out the window.
Hidayah understood.
In her first life, she had mistaken drifting for freedom.
This time, she was choosing.
As the bus rolled toward home, a calm settled deep in her chest.
Her second life wasn't rushing forward.
It wasn't loud.
It wasn't dramatic.
But it was hers.
And for the first time since waking up seventeen again, she knew this with absolute certainty: She had finally stepped onto the right path.