The package arrived while Rani was hanging her prayer garment out to dry in the backyard.
The doorbell rang twice, then stopped. A moment later, a man's voice came from outside the gate.
“Mrs. Rani? Excuse me, ma'am.”
Rani wiped her hands on the hem of her house dress before going outside. She hated leaving the laundry out too long, especially since the rainy season could make clothes smell musty overnight. Out front, a courier stood holding a white box about the size of a shoebox. A black ribbon ran across the top.
“It's from a jewelry store, ma'am. Maybe for Mr. Arman?”
Rani looked at the label affixed crookedly to the box.
Recipient: Siska Mahendra. The address was correct. Only the house number differed by one digit.
“This is house number twelve,” Rani said.
“Ah, then it must be eleven.” The courier glanced down the row of houses. “I thought this was the one. The app clearly shows the address, but maybe I just didn't look closely enough.”
Rani was about to hand the box back. Her hand was already outstretched when the courier said, “Could you hold on to it for now, ma'am? The house next door looks empty. I have to hurry to my next delivery.”
She didn't answer right away.
The box was light. Too light for something sent in packaging like that, Rani thought. The black ribbon had been tied neatly, its ends cut to the same length. On top, beneath the store's logo, a small line was printed: Thank you for choosing us for your special moments.
“Mr. Arman will be home this afternoon,” Rani said at last.
“Then I'll leave it with you, ma'am. I'll make a note of it.”
The courier took out his phone, photographed the box, then handed it to Rani. Before leaving, he still took the time to bow politely.
“Thank you, ma'am. Mr. Arman—the one who's always helping the residents, right?”
Rani gave him a faint smile.
“That’s what a lot of people say.”
The courier chuckled, as if her response were a compliment that naturally deserved agreement, then walked toward house number eleven.
From behind his gate, Mr. Darto immediately raised a hand.
“For Mrs. Rani?”
“No. Wrong address.”
“Wow, don't tell me it's a gift from Mr. Arman.”
Mr. Darto laughed. He was watering the plants in front of his house, wearing a white prayer cap and flip-flops. In the neighborhood, everyone knew Arman always gave Rani gifts on important days. Not just birthdays or wedding anniversaries. Once, Arman had come home one morning carrying a bag of oranges because Rani was coughing. Another time, he replaced the porch light without being asked, then told anyone who happened to pass by as if that light had saved the entire house.
“Mr. Arman is a rare kind of man,” Mr. Darto said. “My wife even says that if every husband were like him, no marriage would ever have an argument.”
Rani carried the box inside.
Her phone vibrated before she could set it down on the dining table. A text message from Arman.
I’ll be home pretty late. There’s a small meeting with the mosque committee. Don’t wait up for dinner.
Rani read the message twice. Then she placed her phone beside the box.
At 12:17, Arman still hadn't come home. Rani checked the rice in the rice cooker, turned off the warmer, then went back to the living room. The white box was still there, on the table, directly beneath the slowly turning fan.
She could have delivered it to house number eleven.
But the house had looked closed up since morning. The curtains hadn't moved. There were no sandals on the porch. No sound of a television.
Rani picked up the box and carried it to the kitchen. She had no intention of opening it. She only wanted to make sure nothing inside had been damaged before handing it over. As soon as she lifted it, something shifted inside.
Not the sound of glass.
Something metal, perhaps.
Rani set the box on the kitchen table. Her fingers stopped over the ribbon's knot.
Outside, the sound of Mr. Darto's motorcycle faded into the distance. The neighborhood grew quiet again. From the mosque at the end of the street came a brief announcement about the schedule for Friday night's religious study.
Arman always arrived first at the religious study. He usually brought two extra bottles of mineral water and helped arrange the mats. Whenever the women complained about their husbands, they mentioned Arman's name as an example, half joking and half serious.
Rani stared at the ribbon's knot.
Then she pulled one end.
The ribbon came loose without a sound.
Inside the box was a white-gold bracelet with a small dark-blue stone. Beneath the velvet cushion was a cream-colored card folded in half.
Rani didn't touch the bracelet. She opened the card with her fingernail.
For Siska.
Eight years, and I still choose you.
A.
Rani read the sentence once. Her expression didn't change. She only drew a breath, so slowly it could hardly be called surprise.
At the bottom of the card was the shipping date: three days before their fourteenth wedding anniversary.
The bracelet looked expensive. Rani didn't know its exact price, but she recognized the box. Two years earlier, Arman had taken her past the same store. At the time, Arman had pointed to a necklace in the display window and said that things like that cost an absurd amount of money.
“If I want to make you happy, I don't need to buy you gold,” he'd said then.
Rani tucked the card beneath the cutting board.
She put the bracelet back in the box. The black ribbon was folded the way it had been, but the knot was no longer as neat as the original. She tried twice before giving up. On the third attempt, she used the tip of a pair of scissors to press the fold into place.
At nine that evening, the sound of a key came from the front door.
Rani was sitting at the dining table. She had moved the box into the kitchen cabinet, behind a stack of plastic containers she rarely used. The cream-colored card was in her wallet, tucked behind her library card, which she hadn't used in years.
Arman came in carrying the smell of rain and eucalyptus oil. He took off his shoes, placed them neatly facing the door, then kissed Rani on the forehead.
“Not asleep yet?”
“You told me not to wait for dinner.”
“I only said not to wait. That doesn't mean I'm unhappy to find you still awake.”
He smiled. It was the smile that always made the neighbors believe no harsh words had ever passed his lips.
Rani watched him hang his keys on the little nail beside the door. His right hand was wet. There was a smear of blue ink on his thumb.
“Did the meeting run late?”
“A little. Mr. Yusuf spent a lot of time discussing next month's event.”
“At the mosque?”
Arman stopped undoing his watch.
“Yes. Why?”
“Nothing.”
He resumed, placing the watch on the sideboard. Then he walked into the kitchen, opened the rice cooker, and got himself some water. Rani waited for him to look toward the cabinet where the box was hidden.
Arman didn't look that way.
He only asked, “We're still eating out tomorrow, right?”
“Yes.”
“Don't forget. Fourteen years is worth celebrating.”
Fourteen years.
Rani touched her wallet beneath the table. The cream-colored card pressed against her palm through the leather.
Arman drank half a glass, then smiled again.
“What’s with that look?”
“What look?”
“Like you’re counting something.”
Rani looked at her husband. For the first time that night, she felt that Arman was watching her too.
“No,” she said. “I’m just tired.”
Arman nodded, satisfied with the answer. He turned off the dining room light, then walked toward the bedroom.
Rani remained sitting in the dark.
From the bedroom, she heard Arman reciting his bedtime prayer. Smooth, low, and familiar. A voice that for fourteen years had made people outside the house feel safe trusting him.
Rani took the card out of her wallet.
She turned it over.
On the back was the impression of a pen. One word showed faintly, as if it had been written and then erased.
Home.
Rani turned on her phone's flashlight and took a picture of it.
Then she put the card back.
That night, she didn't ask Arman about Siska.
She only opened the calendar on her phone and marked a date from eight years earlier.
The same date as the day Arman had first taken her to see their home.