Meanwhile, at Anton’s house.
That morning, Anton woke up gasping for breath, startled by a sudden shock.
His eyes widened as he stared at the unfamiliar, lonely ceiling.
Before his gaze shifted to the digital clock displayed on his phone, which lay on the bedside table.
7:15 a.m. WIB.
"Damn it! It’s past seven!" Anton cursed as he threw off his thin blanket.
"Why didn’t Mila wake me up?! Useless wife!"
In a rush, Anton shoved aside the tangled blanket.
He stood up, his legs still aching and his footing unsteady.
His vision remained slightly hazy from the remnants of sleep and the emotional exhaustion caused by yesterday’s tragedy at the cemetery.
"Mila! Where are you?!" Anton shouted as he grabbed a towel.
"Why didn’t you wake me up, huh?! I have an important meeting with the board of directors at the office this morning! How dare you!"
His sharp, heavy voice echoed through every corner of the house.
Anton hurried out of the bedroom, half running toward the kitchen, which usually filled the house with the delicious aroma of breakfast.
"Hey, Mila! Are you deaf?!" he shouted again as he stepped into the dining area.
"Your husband is calling, and you don’t even answer! Hurry up and make me some hot black coffee and get my breakfast ready right now!"
Silence.
There was no gentle reply that usually greeted him.
No clatter of a spatula striking the frying pan.
No steam rising from warm rice.
And no woman in a simple apron smiling as she welcomed him.
Only the echo of Anton’s own voice bouncing off the walls of the empty living room.
Anton abruptly stopped walking.
His breath came in ragged gasps amid the suffocating silence.
Slowly, the bitter memories of the day before slammed into his consciousness like a massive boulder.
Mila was no longer in that house.
Yesterday morning, beneath an overcast sky beside the rain-soaked grave of their one-month-old baby, Anton had cruelly divorced Mila.
Anton clearly remembered how he had placed all the blame for their son’s death on Mila’s shoulders, crushing the woman’s dignity.
Then, at his mother’s urging, he had thrown her out without the slightest mercy.
After taking a hurried shower, Anton returned to his room to put on his work shirt.
His eyes swept over the messy room.
The unmade bed, the rumpled sheets, and the dirty clothes beginning to pile up in the corner of the laundry basket.
As well as the faint trace of Mila’s fruity perfume still lingering in the air.
Every little detail in the room suddenly became a mirror reflecting Mila’s presence, now gone.
An odd emptiness suddenly crept over him, seizing Anton and forcing him to face the cold reality that he was now truly alone inside the house he had built with his ex-wife.
Anton walked slowly toward the vanity.
His eyes fixed on a carved wooden photo frame placed somewhat hidden in the corner of the table.
Behind the clear glass was a photo from their wedding two years earlier.
Mila looked so elegant in a simple white kebaya, smiling shyly beside Anton as he proudly wrapped an arm around her waist.
Anton’s fingers trembled as they touched the cold glass surface of the frame.
A gentle urge stirred in the deepest recesses of his heart.
As if his fingers wanted to pierce through the glass and reclaim the days when warm laughter, genuine care, and love had filled every corner of this house.
Yet the only response to that impulsive longing was silence and the coldness of marble.
"If only you were still here, Mila..." Anton thought, his throat suddenly tightening.
"At this hour, my shirt would already be neatly ironed. Hot coffee and breakfast would already be waiting on the dining table. You never let me leave for work on an empty stomach..."
Anton jerked his head up and hurriedly looked away from the photo.
He placed the frame facedown on the table, trying to banish the tightness that had suddenly begun gnawing at his chest.
He refused to let himself look weak.
With stiff steps, Anton walked to the kitchen.
He tried to brew his own coffee, something he had never done in the past two years.
His hands trembled as he poured hot water into the cup.
There was no way to get the sugar measurement right.
It tasted far too bitter and harsh.
Perfectly reflecting the turmoil of his feelings at that moment.
"Damn it! Why do I have to think about that woman again?!" Anton muttered with a rough snort.
He stirred his coffee with agitated movements.
"Mom was right. My son died because Mila was weak and incompetent at taking care of her pregnancy and our baby’s health. Luckily, I listened to Mom’s advice and divorced her yesterday. Besides, finding a replacement woman is easy! As long as I have money, a manager’s position, and this house, any woman will want to be with me," he reassured himself, forcing a cynical smile onto his lips.
Anton carried his cup of coffee into the living room and sat on the plush sofa, taking a sip of the bitter drink.
He had just started to lean back when the doorbell suddenly rang loudly, shattering the awkward quiet of the morning.
Ding-dong!
Ding-dong!
Anton let out a long sigh, his brow furrowing in irritation.
"Who’s coming over this early? What a nuisance!" he grumbled irritably.