An extraordinarily sharp burning pain struck Aira in the pit of her stomach again, this time so much stronger that her eyes filled with tears. She gasped for breath on the dusty cement floor. Cold sweat drenched her entire body.
In the midst of the torturous silence, the only sounds were her wildly racing heartbeat and the soft moans she struggled to hold back so they would not be heard outside.
She hugged her belly tightly, as if trying to protect her little one from the dust of despair left behind by the sedan.
"I won't give you up, sweetheart... Never..." Aira whispered, her voice breaking with sobs.
Outside, the cloud of dust kicked up by the luxury sedan's tires slowly merged with the afternoon air. Yet the car's departure left behind a wave of whispers that was far more terrifying.
At the neighborhood watch post not far from Aira's house, several villagers had gathered. Mrs. Lisa stood at the very front of the crowd, her face filled with triumph as if she had just found proof of all her worst suspicions.
"Look at that! You all saw it yourselves, didn't you?" Mrs. Lisa cried shrilly, provoking the villagers. "A luxury car from Jakarta! With bodyguards in suits! Why would rich people come to visit a poor widow like that unless something shady was going on?"
"Maybe they were her family, Mrs. Lisa?" Mr. RT chimed in as he happened to walk past, trying to calm her down.
"What family?" Mrs. Lisa cut in quickly, planting both hands on her hips. "If they were family, why would they order her out while tossing her around like that? I'm sure Aira is some rich man's mistress who was dumped in our village because she got pregnant! We can't let a troubled woman like her live in this village. She'll bring bad luck down on all of us!"
Whispers of agreement began to spread among the neighbors. The village's stigma and rigid customs quickly swallowed up reason.
In an instant, Aira was no longer merely a poor, unfortunate seamstress. She had become a social threat to the community they called home.
Aira slowly pulled herself along, using the legs of her old Singer sewing machine for support as she stood.
Every joint in her body felt weak, but she forced herself to shut the weathered wooden door tightly and secure the wooden bar from inside. She needed a wall—no matter how fragile—to shield herself from a world that had grown far too cruel.
She staggered toward the small mirror hanging, cracked, in the corner of the room.
The face reflected in it looked utterly dull. Dark circles surrounded her swollen eyes, and her lips were deathly pale. Yet behind that physical fragility was a flash of determination she had never felt before.
The threat hurled at her by Pak Handoko's family that afternoon had awakened another side of Aira. She realized that hiding behind this old sewing machine would no longer be enough to protect her child.
They knew where she lived. Sooner or later, they would return with methods even more cunning—or more forceful.
Night fell, wrapping the village in darkness. Aira did not light her kerosene lamp that night. She sat on the floor with her back against a long wooden chair, letting the darkness envelop her.
*Klek.*
The faint scrape beneath the back door of her house startled Aira. She held her breath, readying the fabric scissors in her hand.
But it was not the harsh pounding of the bodyguards. Only a sheet of old newspaper was pushed through the gap beneath the door, followed by the hurried sound of footsteps retreating into the distance.
With trembling hands, Aira felt for the paper in the darkness. She struck a match and lit a small candle.
On top of the tattered newspaper lay three packets of uncooked tempeh and a small handwritten note from Mbah Sri, written in slightly blurred black ink:
'Aira, the villagers are angry because of Mrs. Lisa's whispers. Don't leave the house tomorrow. I've already told Mrs. Sumi that I'll deliver her uniform later, but don't open the door for anyone except me. Pray. God never sleeps.'
Aira's tears fell onto the paper, making the black ink of Mbah Sri's handwriting run.
Amid the storm of encroaching hatred and the threat of those in power, the small kindness of the elderly tempeh seller became Aira's only foothold as she struggled to endure. She clutched the tempeh tightly against her chest.
She had to survive. She had to deliver this child safely. And to do that, Aira knew... someday, she would have to find the courage to stand up and challenge them all.