The morning sun did not immediately pierce the thick fog blanketing the hillside of the village. At six in the morning, the air still cut to the bone, carrying a cold vapor that froze the dew clinging to the tips of the clove leaves. Arya woke on the old kapok mattress in his childhood bedroom. There was none of the blaring car horns, roaring factory engines, or cries of passing vendors that usually woke him in Jakarta. All he could hear was the distant crowing of roosters answering one another and the rustle of bamboo leaves stirred by the morning breeze.
He got up and stretched his stiff muscles, then walked toward the bedroom window. Slowly, he opened the wooden shutters. The sight of green gardens spread beneath a veil of thin mist immediately soothed his eyes. Clean, fresh air, far from the pollution of vehicle exhaust, filled his lungs. For a moment, a strange calm crept into his chest, a stark contrast to the exhaustion he had felt the night before.
But the calm did not last long. The moment he left his room and entered the living room, the aroma of locally brewed robusta coffee greeted his senses. His mother was already seated at the simple jackfruit-wood dining table, wearing a worn batik house dress as she knitted a gray wool scarf.
"You're up, sweetheart? Have some coffee first—it's still hot. I didn't use too much sugar on purpose, so it would taste like the coffee you used to make," his mother said without looking away from her knitting.
Arya pulled out the wooden chair across from her and sat down. He slowly sipped the thick black coffee. Its distinctive bitterness spread across his tongue, bringing back memories of his teenage years, when he often spent late nights on the terrace of this house composing his first musical scores.
"Thank you, Mom," Arya said softly. "I'm sorry if coming home has only become another burden for you."
His mother set the knitting in her lap, then fixed Arya with a sharp yet tender gaze. "What burden? This house belongs to your parents, Arya. Coming back here when the outside world has been too cruel to you isn't a failure. The question now is, what are you going to do next? Are you going to keep locking yourself in your room, mourning your old studio now that it's been reduced to rubble?"
The question struck Arya right in the gut. He truly had no plan. His thoughts were still a chaotic mess, filled with guilt, profound disappointment, and fear of the future. Now that he was in his early thirties, the people in his village had probably already settled into small families and steady jobs, while he had returned as a loser, bankrupt both financially and emotionally.
"I don't know yet, Mom. It feels like all my energy was drained away over there," Arya answered honestly, staring at the coffee cup that was now only half full.
"Rest for a few days. Take in the village air properly. But remember, a wound will never heal if you just sit still and let it fester," his mother advised before returning to her knitting.
After breakfast, Arya decided to take a walk outside. He put on his favorite jacket and followed the village road, which was growing busier with residents heading to the market or the gardens. Along the way, several neighbors greeted him warmly. Though many were surprised to see him return so suddenly without any of the luxury he had once possessed, their welcome felt warm and free of judgment. There were no condescending looks—at least, none that were obvious.
Without realizing it, Arya's footsteps carried him higher and higher, toward the hills surrounded by pine trees. This was where he used to withdraw, carrying a small notebook to write lyrics or record the sounds of nature with his portable voice recorder—an old device now buried at the bottom of his backpack with its power button broken.
When he passed an old colonial-style building that had once served as the former village hall, his steps came to a halt. The building now looked abandoned, its walls covered in green moss and some of its roof tiles collapsed. Yet on the front veranda, someone was sitting in an old wooden chair, holding a large sketchbook.
Arya narrowed his eyes, trying to recognize the shoulder-length-haired woman in the oversized flannel shirt. When she turned toward him after hearing footsteps crunching over the gravel, Arya's heart seemed to stop for a fraction of a second.
It was Rania.
The woman he had deliberately kept out of his memory for the past five years—the woman who had once shared his dreams, tears, and the same music studio in the capital—was now sitting right before him in the quiet of this hillside village. How could she be here? Wasn't Rania supposed to still be living in Jakarta, pursuing her career?
Rania looked just as startled. The pencil in her hand nearly slipped from her fingers. Their eyes met across the space between them, creating a silence heavy with thousands of words left unspoken, along with the wounds of the past that had now come alive again, lingering between them both.