The scream came again.
Shattering the night, piercing through the thick walls of a grand Javanese joglo house that stood proudly at the edge of the village. Its iron gate was always tightly shut—tall, cold, and rigid—as if deliberately sealing the secrets inside from the outside world.
The villagers were used to seeing large-built men going in and out of the house. Their faces were stern, their eyes constantly alert, always on guard. No one dared to ask questions. No one wanted to know too much.
Yet every time the screams echoed—sometimes followed by sobs, sometimes by cries that sounded like desperate pleas—anyone who heard them felt their heart sink with pity.
No one knew what truly happened behind those walls.
What they knew was this:
the house never truly slept.
"Aaakkhh…!"
The scream broke apart, carried on a breath that nearly gave out.
A young man rolled across the cold, bare floor. His body was tall, but far too thin to be called healthy. He had once been known as strong, even handsome. Now, all that remained were bones beneath skin—and hollow eyes devoid of light.
His name was Muhamad Ammar Al Rizky.
He was over twenty-one—legally an adult—yet his soul was trapped in a dark space that offered no escape.
"Aaakkhh… it hurts, Mom… it hurts so much…"
His body writhed like a worm drenched in salt. Both hands clutched his chest, as if trying to tear something out—something unbearably tight inside.
Beside him, a middle-aged woman sat weakly on the floor. Tears fell silently. Her hands trembled as she touched the hair of the son she had once brought into this world with prayers and hope.
Her pride.
Now alive… but not truly living.
Not dead… yet never really wanting to survive.
"Mom… Mom, please help me, Al…"
Ammar's voice was hoarse. Every word tore at his own throat.
He slept on the floor. Barely clothed in a pair of shorts. His body was covered in scars—some visible, others buried deep inside, in places no medicine could ever reach.
And from those dry lips, only one name escaped—again and again, without end.
Silvi Khairunnisa.
The name that ruled his entire soul.
The woman who had never touched him.
The woman who had never given him hope.
Yet the woman who had destroyed his life completely.
He loved her.
Too deeply.
Too long.
Too dangerously.
Not because he couldn't have her.
But because he was forbidden to love her.
His father—a powerful, rigid man obsessed with reputation—would rather watch his son slowly lose his sanity than allow feelings deemed inappropriate.
"Better that you suffer," he had once said,
"than disgrace this family."
From that moment on, the house became a prison.
"Assalamu'alaikum, Miss."
The voice came suddenly.
I lifted my head instinctively. He was standing too close—too tall—his shadow blocking part of the light in front of me.
My heart skipped.
Ya Allah…
Why does someone have a face arranged so perfectly?
Tall. Light brown skin. A sharp jawline. Eyes that felt far too mature for his age. Everything about him felt… wrong. Too grown to be called a boy, yet too young to step into my life.
I stared a fraction of a second longer than I should have. A strange sensation crept in. As if I had known him before… yet my mind refused to go further.
"Wa'alaikumsalam."
He smiled.
And for reasons I didn't understand, my chest trembled—before I quickly forced the feeling down.
Enough.
Probably just a village boy.
I didn't even know him.
I turned away, trying to refocus. Unaware—completely unaware—that from that moment on, my life had begun to crack, quietly.
"Silvi, why are you smiling to yourself?"
Indah's voice snapped me out of it.
"Nothing," I replied quickly. "I was just looking at that kid. He looks really young."
Indah raised an eyebrow. "You really are something…"
"Hush."
I waved her off. I knew my boundaries. I was a grown woman. Divorced. Broken once. And I wasn't looking for anything.
My ex-husband had once had a gentle, boyish face too. But that was ten years ago. Before everything collapsed.
Why did it still hurt?
Even though so much time had passed.
Even though I said I had forgiven him.
My heart?
I didn't know.
Focus, Silvi.
You're a committee member. Not a woman living in the past.
The religious gathering that night was crowded. The small mosque beside my house hosted it. All the villagers attended. Indah and I were busy handing out snacks, welcoming guests, running back and forth.
Until I had to fetch more snacks from Kyai's house.
I passed through the side door. Quiet. Empty.
"Miss."
I turned.
It was him again.
"Yes? Can I help you?"
He looked awkward. As if he wanted to say something—but hesitated.
"Nothing… I just wanted to call you," he said softly. "Your name is Silvi, right?"
I frowned. "Yes. Why?"
He smiled faintly. "Later… when we meet again."
Then he walked away.
Rude.
I muttered under my breath. Kids these days were strange. Impolite. Unclear.
I didn't know—
that for him, it wasn't playfulness.
It was the last courage he had that night.
The night grew late.
The gathering ended close to two in the morning. I went home exhausted, my head heavy. The moment I lay down, I fell asleep.
No dreams.
But somewhere else—
Ammar sat at the edge of his bed. His eyes were red. His hands trembled.
"Just by seeing you… I'm already ruined."
That name again.
Silvi Khairunnisa.
The woman thirteen years older than him.
The woman who had been married before.
The woman he should never have loved.
"I'm insane…"
He laughed softly, then cried.
He had seen her again that night. After years. After believing those feelings were nothing more than childhood admiration.
They weren't.
It was love.
A love never granted permission to live.
"I know you'll never believe in a man like me," he whispered. "But my feelings don't lie."
He stared blankly ahead.
He knew this path would bleed.
He knew there would be a price to pay.
But one thing became clear that night—
He didn't want to heal.
He wanted to possess.