The Yangon Crows

The first time Mayri saw her brother dead, she thought he was sleeping.

It was just before dawn when they pulled Ko Min's body from Kandawgyi Lake. The water clung to him, black and shining under the streetlights. His arms were limp, his head lolled to one side. He looked peaceful—until she saw the bruises around his throat, the cuts on his knuckles, the way his wrists had been bound before the ropes were cut.

Mayri stood on the damp wooden planks of the boardwalk, her bare feet cold against the old teak. Her mother wasn't here. No one had come except for a few police officers and the park's night guard, an old man who kept shaking his head and muttering prayers under his breath.

One of the officers, a broad-shouldered man with a cigarette dangling from his lips, glanced at her.

"You're the sister?"

She nodded, unable to speak.

The officer exhaled a slow stream of smoke. "Looks like a robbery. Probably some drunk thugs. Took his money, roughed him up, threw him in the lake."

Mayri's hands curled into fists. Ko Min wasn't rich, but he was careful. He didn't wander into dark alleys without a reason. And he never got into fights he couldn't win.

She forced herself to speak. "Where's his bag?"

The officer frowned. "What?"

"His bag. He always carried a notebook with him. Where is it?"

The officer shrugged. "If he had one, it's gone."

Gone. Just like that.

She felt something cold settle in her stomach.

The other officers were already moving, covering the body with a white sheet, preparing to take him away. It was too fast. Too easy.

This wasn't just a robbery.

Someone had killed her brother.

And she was going to find out who.

Mayri pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders as she walked through the narrow alleys of downtown Yangon, the evening rain drumming against the tin rooftops. The scent of wet earth and fried street food mixed with the sharp tang of petrol fumes. Neon lights flickered in the puddles beneath her feet, painting the world in fractured reds and blues.

It had been two weeks since her brother Ko Min's body was found floating in Kandawgyi Lake, his hands bound, his face swollen from the water. The police called it a robbery gone wrong. But Mayri knew better.

Ko Min wasn't the kind of person to get caught off guard. He was cautious, always checking over his shoulder. He whispered about things Mayri didn't understand, about people with too much power, about debts that weren't paid with money.

And now he was dead.

The police had stopped answering her questions after the first few days. They told her to go home, let it go. But how could she?

Her feet carried her toward the Sulé Pagoda, the golden spire still shining defiantly against the storm clouds. Across the street, nestled between a crumbling colonial building and a dimly lit tailor shop, stood an old tea-house. The Red Orchid.

It was one of Ko Min's usual haunts.

She pushed open the heavy wooden door, and the scent of black tea and burnt sugar filled her nose. Inside, the tea-house was quiet, the kind of place where people spoke in half-whispers, their conversations masked by the steady clatter of teacups.

Mayri stepped inside, her soaked sandals slapping against the wooden floor.

The old woman behind the counter, Daw Than, glanced up from her ledger. Her sharp eyes lingered on Mayri for a moment before she exhaled, shaking her head.

"You shouldn't be here, child."

"I need to talk to someone."

Daw Than sighed and wiped her hands on her apron. "I told you already—your brother was reckless. He asked too many questions. Now he's gone."

Mayri clenched her fists. "Then let me ask them instead."

A man sitting in the far corner lowered his newspaper. He was older, maybe late thirties, his face lined with experience. A faded scar ran from his cheekbone to his jaw. He studied Mayri with interest, then folded the paper neatly and set it down.

"You're Ko Min's sister, aren't you?"

Mayri hesitated, then nodded.

The man gestured to the empty seat across from him. "Sit."

She hesitated, but Daw Than didn't stop her. That meant something.

She sat.

The man poured himself another cup of tea, the steam curling between them.

"Your brother got involved with people he shouldn't have," he said finally. "People who don't forgive mistakes."

Mayri swallowed hard. "Who?"

The man stirred his tea slowly, watching the liquid swirl. "There are things you don't want to know, little one."

She straightened her back. "I'm not little. And I want to know everything."

A flicker of something—maybe amusement, maybe pity—passed through the man's expression. He set his cup down.

"Your brother had a habit of writing things down."

Mayri's breath caught.

His notebook.

She had torn apart their tiny apartment looking for it, but it was gone.

"Where is it?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

The man leaned forward, his voice low. "Find the notebook, and you'll find your brother's killer."

A chill ran down her spine.

Before she could speak, the man slid a folded slip of paper across the table.

A single address.

Somewhere in the city, someone had the answers she was looking for.

Mayri picked up the paper, tucked it into her pocket, and stood.The rain was still falling when she stepped outside. But this time, she didn't care.

She had a lead.

And she wasn't stopping until she found the truth.