Winda's high-pitched cry echoed through the boarding house, loud enough to reach the third floor.
Hira stepped out and find the usual scene: Winda and Icha at war again, toys scattered everywhere. Icha clutched her doll calmly, while Winda wailed in defeat.
"Oh, so many toys!" Hira sighed, lifting Winda into her lap.
Icha, feeling overlooked, walked away with her doll, leaving the two of them behind. Though smaller and frailer in build, Icha—Mrs. Yulia's second daughter—was almost the same age as Winda. But unlike Winda, she rarely cried. She always won.
Trying to distract Winda, Hira picked up a toy from the table. "What's this? What do we use it for?" It was a plastic thermometer.
"For the armpit!" Winda replied quickly, her tears vanishing.
"Ohhh," Hira chuckled, surprised at how easily the little girl bounced back.
"And this one?" Hira asked, holding a tiny toy microscope.
"To see germs!" Winda said, beaming.
"Smart girl!" Hira praised, meaning it with all her heart.
Then Winda flipped the game back on her. She grabbed a plastic toy screwdriver and asked, "What's this for, Teacher?"
Hira paused, searching for words that a four-year-old would understand.
"For everything!" Winda announced before she could answer, giggling at her own cleverness.
Just then, her mother's phone rang. On the screen, a name flashed.
Bapak.
Winda snatched the phone and ran upstairs, shouting, "Papa! Icha's father is calling!"
Somehow, she just knew.
Hira sat in silence, unsettled by the moment. Why did her chest feel tight?
☯☯☯
That evening, Viny came over.
"Kak Hira, could you move your motorbike? Bapak is coming home tonight."
Hira looked toward the parking area. Yes, her bike was blocking the driveway.
"How do you know he's coming tonight?" she asked.
"It's Friday," Viny answered quickly, as if that explained everything.
Hira said nothing. But in her heart she noticed it—everything here revolved around Bapak. Everyone seemed to admire him. Even the neighbors spoke his name with respect.
She remembered once buying vegetables at a nearby stall.
"Has Bapak harvested yet?" the seller asked casually.
"Which Bapak?" Hira had replied, confused.
"The policeman."
"Oh… not yet." She answered shortly, ending the conversation.
But inside, she wondered—how did this shopkeeper even know she lived in 'the policeman' boarding house. There were many boarding houses around. It seemed this man's presence reached everywhere, through eyes and ears unseen.
Back at the house, preparations were underway. The yard had been cleaned, the koi pond drained and refilled until the water sparkled. The hydroponic garden upstairs had been neatly arranged.
Bibi was cooking something special.
"Only when Bapak is home," she admitted with a small, bitter smile, "Ibu buys chicken, fish, or meat. Otherwise, it's just tofu and tempeh."
Hira moved her motorbike aside to clear space for his car.
How troublesome, she thought, though she couldn't deny her heart was racing.
☯☯☯
That evening, after watching the sunset from the rooftop, Hira descended the stairs.
Just as she reached the last step, a car stopped right in front of her.
A man stepped out. Clean-skinned, dressed in a crisp white uniform.
Hira froze.
It was him.
The man she had first seen coming out of her room, towel draped over his neck. The same man whose gaze had pierced her through the car window days before.
But now he was transformed. In uniform, he seemed like someone else entirely—commanding, noble. Almost unrecognizable, except for his eyes. Those eyes she could never mistake.
Her heart whispered the name already etched there:
Alexander Billy Dharmawan.
The owner of this house.
No smile. No greeting. Just a glance, and the wild pounding of Hira's heart as he walked past her.
Her gaze followed his car, olive green with bold letters painted on the side:
Indonesian Coast Guard.
The sight dazzled her.
☯☯☯