The woman never knew that someone often watched all of it. Over the decades, Pak Harun had met all kinds of people. As the caretaker of the mosque standing directly across from the shelter he owned, the gray-haired man often encountered wealthy people who came bearing large donations, officials who arrived with a camera crew in tow, or young volunteers who came full of enthusiasm but lasted only a few weeks. Even ordinary people who donated solely because they wanted to be known.
But the woman was different—very different. Pak Harun had never seen her take pictures of herself while giving aid, or refuse when her name was mentioned in the posts of content creators chasing fame.
The woman also never cared how many people knew about her help. Even when Pak Harun wanted to put her name down as a volunteer, the woman shook her head, her expression firm yet fearful.
What he looked forward to most was hearing a voice come from her mouth. Pak Harun had grown curious—not because he wanted to know about her private life, but simply because he wanted to understand what made the woman so generous and yet so guarded.
That afternoon, the children were busy receiving the books Hana was handing out. Pak Harun watched from the mosque's veranda. From where he sat, he could see the woman inside the room, helping Maryam choose a storybook.
Pak Harun watched her from a distance. He could not find an answer for why the woman who spoke so little was so guarded. He suspected she carried something unbearably heavy inside her. Something she did not want to share with anyone.
Even when several mosque congregants voiced their suspicion that the woman was mute, Harun, who overheard the conversation, only smiled. He did not confirm it, because he did not know the truth, but neither did he deny it, because he knew the woman could speak. She had simply chosen not to use her voice.
That night, heavy rain accompanied by a storm had been falling since afternoon. The woman was stranded and unable to go home. The wind blew fiercely, punctuated by booming, overlapping thunder.
The children gathered in the common room. The shelter was livelier than usual. From the mosque's veranda, Pak Harun looked toward the shelter.
Several children could be seen sleeping in groups in the common room. The others read books before bed.
The rain had not truly let up, still leaving behind a light drizzle. The house was growing quiet. Pak Harun still had not gone to sleep, sitting on the veranda while reading a book.
Little by little, he heard a voice coming from the shelter. It flowed softly, steadily, and with deep feeling. Pak Harun set down his book, his eyes scanning the dimly lit shelter. The voice sounded more like someone reciting poetry, and he sharpened his attention, intrigued. As the sound grew clearer, he realized it was not poetry but the Word of God, recited melodiously and with perfect measured rhythm.
For a moment, Pak Harun was stunned. That voice... it wasn't one of the children's. Then whose was it? Slowly, curious, Pak Harun moved closer and peered through the glass window beside the wall. His lips parted in amazement, his eyes widened, his breath caught. That voice... flowed with heartfelt devotion from the lips of the woman the congregants called mute. The woman sat alone on a prayer rug, her body upright, her face wet with tears, yet her voice remained calm and clear.
Farhan woke up and slowly came closer. The recitation of the Word of God had apparently woken several others as well. They gathered around the woman.
“Bunda, you recite so beautifully?” a child whispered.
“Masya Allah, I had no idea Bunda's voice was this beautiful,” Maryam whispered to Hasan.