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The man smiled at me, baby in arms nestled tightly to his chest. A wide smile- wide as a dinner plate. I proffered a simple "hello", and a playful wave at the baby, despite knowing it wouldn't recognise it as a greeting. He offered me to come inside for a coffee... I'd been living in the suburbs of Bali for about two months, away from the hubbub and beer-thirsty hoi-polloi of the coast. Having already served my penance for such boorish, boozing behaviour, I was now in the process of mimicking the life I had planned for myself in my mind- working hard, saving for the future, not over-indulging in the vices. Learning the language was also on my overflowing to-do list, and living among the Denpasar locals had, slowly, been paying dividends. Whilst teaching on my roof, underneath the safety of a small thatched roof and enjoying the cooling breezes unafforded to my apartment, I sipped cheap coffee and gazed at my surroundings often. The rice paddies. Mount Agung in the distance. The god-gargoyles engraved onto rooftop tiles. However, one thing had been causing me relative anguish: the sound of what seemed to be a child in pain. Every day, every afternoon, the sounds of wailing and moaning were uttered, no words following them. The echoed hauntingly around the estate. Yet the neighbours continued hanging clothes to dry in stagnant air, the dogs carried on lounging in the middle of the street, and the birds persisted on chirping and hooting as though it were simply the sounds of one of their brethren. ... The man offered me a seat on a tattered and battered sofa, motioning to his wife to put on a brew. He talked in Indonesian, I in broken segments of the same language. As is customary, we talked about our families. The coffee was sweet: I had forgotten to ask for no sugar. Suddenly the harrowing voice was set off, now in what sounded like the room next door. The man, whose name I had learned was Rizky, saw what must have been a quite disturbed look and asked his wife to open the door to the adjoining room. He led me inside. In the corner of a half-renovated room sat a birdcage, in the cage a lyrebird. Lyrebirds are common pets in Indonesia, and for those who don't know this gorgeous little specimen, they are incredible mimics. "Our son died two years ago. He was mentally and physically handicapped and suffered greatly. This was his room. This bird was one of the only joys we could afford him. It also copied his screams. Now it continues after our son is gone. It is a daily reminder for us that his spirit is still here." I asked if he will keep it. "I asked my wife yesterday," he replied, sobbing into his shirt. His wife finished his answer. "𝘉𝘦𝘭𝘶𝘮", she said. Not yet.