The next morning, Siti woke with the letter from her parents still heavy in her mind. The bank card lay in the small wooden box under her bed, alongside her ribbon, the stone, and the dried petals of her birthday flowers. She slid the box open and took out the card, holding it between her fingers as though it might break.
Her parents had written that it was "enough money to support her for seven months." But money trapped inside a card was meaningless to her unless she knew how to use it. She stared at the thin strip of plastic, tracing the golden square of the chip with her nail, whispering under her breath, "How does this even work?"
She remembered once, long ago, when her father stopped at a shop and used a card like this at the counter. He slid it into a small machine, pressed some buttons, and left with groceries in hand. It had looked so simple then. But to Siti, standing on her own, it felt like facing a locked door with no key.
Still, she knew she had to try.
She put the card carefully into the pocket of her faded jeans, grabbed her small sling bag, and wheeled her old bicycle out from the shed. The morning sun was already climbing, and the heat pressed against her skin as she pedaled down the road. Her bicycle creaked with each turn of the wheel, but it was her only way to town.
The streets grew busier as she rode further. Small shops opened their shutters, motorbikes zoomed past, and children in school uniforms walked in groups, laughing and carrying books. Siti looked away quickly. She hadn't worn her school uniform in weeks.
By the time she reached the small bank in town, her palms were slick with sweat. The building was cool and quiet, with people standing in line for the counters. To the side, a row of machines stood against the wall—machines she had only seen from afar.
She parked her bicycle outside and stepped inside, clutching the bank card tightly in her hand.
The ATM stood taller than her, its screen glowing faintly. People walked up to it, inserted their cards, tapped buttons with practiced fingers, and walked away with crisp banknotes. It seemed so easy for them.
Siti waited until the line was clear, her heart hammering. She stepped closer, reading the small instructions taped on the side of the machine. She recognized some words—"Masukkan Kad," "Tekan PIN Anda," "Pilih Transaksi." But it all swirled together, strange and overwhelming.
She fumbled with the card, sliding it into the slot. The machine beeped, and words appeared on the screen. But the moment it asked for a PIN, her breath caught. PIN? Her parents hadn't written anything about a PIN in their letter.
She tried pressing random numbers—her birthday, her house number—but the machine beeped angrily, flashing a red warning. Heat rose to her cheeks as people behind her started watching. She quickly yanked the card out and stepped aside, her hands trembling.
The embarrassment stung worse than the fear. She hurried out of the bank, clutching the card against her chest as though someone might steal it. Her bicycle felt heavier on the way home, her legs weak from both the ride and the weight of her failure.
On the roadside, she slowed down as she passed a small kopitiam. A group of adults sat at plastic tables, talking loudly over steaming cups of coffee. Their voices drifted to her as she pedaled past.
"Times are hard now," one man said. "Jobs are scarce, but money is everything."
"True," another replied. "Without money, you're nothing. You can't eat, you can't live."
Siti's grip on the handlebars tightened. The words stung her, the truth of them pressing into her mind. She had a card full of money, but she couldn't touch it, couldn't understand how to make it help her. And without her parents, she couldn't ask anyone for guidance.
By the time she reached her house, the sky was glowing orange with the setting sun. She leaned her bicycle against the gate and walked inside slowly, her shoulders heavy with defeat.
She cooked herself a simple dinner of rice and fried egg, though her appetite was gone. The food tasted like nothing, her throat tightening with each bite.
Later, as the night deepened, Siti lay on her bed staring at the ceiling. The silence of the house pressed down on her once more, heavier than ever. She thought of the bank card in the box under her bed, useless in her hands. She thought of the people at the kopitiam, their words circling in her head: "Jobs… money… you can't live without it."
Siti hugged her pillow tightly. The ache of loneliness was still there, but now something else stirred inside her—a quiet determination.
"If I can't use the card," she whispered into the darkness, "then I'll find another way."
The idea grew slowly, like a spark in the shadows. She had seen people in town working—sweeping floors, selling snacks, carrying goods. Maybe she could do something too. She wasn't sure who would hire an eleven-year-old girl, but she had to try.
Tomorrow, she told herself, she would start looking.
For the first time in months, she felt a strange kind of hope, fragile but alive.
As sleep crept over her, she repeated the thought like a promise:
"Tomorrow, I will find a job."