The rain hadn’t really stopped since afternoon. Water pooled across the narrow alley as I walked, my school uniform still damp and clinging to my skin. My white shirt was wrinkled, my blue junior-high pants soaked up to the knees. In my hands was a tray of fried banana and stuffed tofu—mother’s cooking—still too many left unsold.

My hands were small, and the tray felt heavy.

But tonight, I had to sell everything.

Tomorrow they would no longer taste good, and our grocery money would fall short. If that happened, Bimo and Sari would eat plain rice with soy sauce again, without vegetables. That’s how we lived.

I was the oldest of three. We lived in a tiny rented room near the Manggarai train tracks. Father still existed—at least on paper—but his presence was like cigarette smoke: appearing briefly, then gone. Sometimes he came home drunk, sometimes disappeared for weeks. Mother always told me not to hate him, but I knew she often cried quietly at night when she thought we were asleep.

Every morning I brought mother’s bread and fried snacks to school, hoping classmates would buy some. In the afternoon until night, I walked around the neighborhood and Meranti Complex—rich people's area with tall gates and shining cars. It was a different world, but I passed its gates every day.

The drizzle returned. My slippers were slippery, but I kept walking.

“Chikooo!” a voice called from the guard post.

Pak Burhan waved—security guard of Meranti Complex. Beside him, Pak Aldi sipped steaming coffee. A small neon lamp glowed above them, drawing insects to its light.

I approached, hiding my shivers.

“Selling again? It's late, son,” Pak Burhan said, taking three snacks.

“No homework?” Pak Aldi asked.

“I’ll do it later… after selling, Sir.”

I smiled faintly; my voice was nearly drowned by the rain.

He pulled out some coins. Warm—not because of the amount, but because attention like that was rare in my life.

“What grade are you in?” he asked.

“Eighth.” I scratched my leg, itchy from mosquito bites.

“How are your siblings?” Pak Aldi continued.

“Bimo’s in fourth grade. Sari’s in second,” I sighed. “If I sell everything, we can buy rice… maybe even one egg.”

They exchanged a look, eyes turning somber.

“So young, but life’s already tough on him,” Pak Burhan murmured after I left.

I pretended not to hear, but the words stuck.

I often felt older than my age.

When I reached the dim intersection, three women stood laughing. Their makeup was bold, hair high and neat, clothes sparkling under the streetlight. Their voices were slightly deep, yet soft when they greeted me.

People in the neighborhood might not like them much, but every time I passed, they always spared a few bills to buy my snacks.

“Chikooo~ come here, sweetie!” Aunty Brigita waved with her bright red lipstick and warm smile.

I came closer, bowing politely.

“So young, selling snacks at night like this,” Aunty Jesika said, taking two tofu fritters and paying extra.

Aunty Joan tapped my shoulder gently. “If I had a child, I’d want them to be as strong as you.”

Their laughter filled the street. Beneath the joking and glitter, I sensed they were also fighting life in their own way.

I sat briefly on the low wall beside them.

The streetlamp cast long shadows on the wet ground.

Winged insects swirled around the light like tiny city snow.

“You cold?” Aunty Jesika asked softly, touching my wet hand.

I shook my head with a smile, though my bones trembled.

Not many people asked me things like that.

People could say whatever they wanted about them—to me, they were kind.

They bought my snacks, offered me shelter when it rained, called me “dear”—a tenderness I rarely received elsewhere.

They weren’t family, but felt like familiar strangers who never judged me.

After selling a few more pieces, I said goodbye.

Night grew darker. Rain fell again. A train passed by, the ground rumbling gently. I walked home through the narrow alley toward our small room by the tracks.

When I opened the door, the smell of dough welcomed me.

Mother was still kneading flour—her hands rough and cracked from work. Her face was tired, but when she saw my tray almost empty, her smile bloomed—warm, simple, the most sincere thing in the world.

“Change your clothes. You’ll catch a cold,” she said while counting the money.

I placed the coins on the table and approached the thin mattress where Bimo and Sari slept curled together. Their breathing was slow, innocent—they didn’t know how harsh the world could be.

I laid down beside them. The rain drummed on the tin roof, loud and endless.

Mother paused her kneading.

Her voice was soft, like she was afraid it would break.

“Chik… we can’t buy a Christmas tree this year.”

She gave a small smile—the kind that hides exhaustion.

“But… if you want, we can imagine one. Right there in the corner—a tall one, with blinking lights… beautiful.”

I stared at the damp corner.

Empty.

Just a bucket catching leaks and my school bag.

But I closed my eyes.

And suddenly, everything felt warm.

I saw a tall green tree with red-and-green lights. Beneath it were presents—not expensive ones, just small hopes: a plastic ball for Bimo, a pink ribbon for Sari, a mixer for Mother so her hands wouldn’t ache anymore.

And for Father?

I wasn’t sure.

Maybe I just wanted him to come home.

That night, in our narrow room—cold, wet, and dim—I felt happy.

Even if only inside a dream.

Even if life outside was never gentle.

I wished Christmas this year would be different.

Or maybe…

the last one I’d remember this warmly.

I woke up late that morning. Last night’s rain still dripped from our tin roof, leaving the floor damp and cold on my feet. Mother was already in the kitchen with her old apron tied around her waist. She packed bread, fried bananas, and stuffed tofu into plastic bags for the school canteen.

“Eat a little first,” she said.

I took a quick bite of bread. Sari was still asleep with messy hair, Bimo rubbed his eyes lazily.

“Kak Chiko… bring bread again later?” he asked sleepily.

“If there’s leftover,” I smiled, patting his head.

Mother looked back and smiled softly—her smile always looked older than her age.

I grabbed my bag and stepped out through the narrow alley. Morning in Jakarta wasn’t cold — humid, sticky, and a bit suffocating after the rain. My uniform clung to my skin.

I caught an angkot. Inside, the smell of gasoline and sweat mixed in the cramped space. A kid complained about ice tea he couldn’t get, a man slept hugging his bag. I stared out the foggy window.

Jakarta was always like this — loud, tired, but somehow alive.

I jumped off near school, almost slipping because the pavement was still wet. I ran — and BUMP!

My shoulder hit someone. The bread packets fell from my plastic bag. I crouched down quickly. A hand helped me.

I looked up.

Alika.

The new girl introduced yesterday. Neat hair, clear face, gentle eyes.

“It’s okay,” she said softly, handing one packet back to me.

My face burned. “Thank you… I’m sorry.”

I hurried to the canteen before she could see the handwritten price on the plastic.

Mr. Hasan was arranging snacks behind the glass display when I arrived.

“Late again, Chiko,” he chuckled.

I handed him the bag. “Please sell these, Sir.”

He placed bread, fried bananas, and stuffed tofu neatly.

“Your mom gets better each day. Bring more tomorrow.”

I smiled a little and went to class.

But my mind stayed in the hallway — with that smile.

During break, Alika walked to my desk.

“Chiko… may I borrow your chemistry book?”

My hand trembled slightly as I pulled it out.

“Here…”

“Thank you,” she smiled again — small, warm, gentle.

Whispers rose immediately.

> “She’s talking to him?”

“The bread seller?”

“He’s kind of cute though…”

Two boys laughed loudly.

> “Imagine dating him — leftover bread for dinner!”

“Soy sauce for special occasion!”

I lowered my gaze. I was used to it.

But strangely, it hurt less today.

Maybe because someone saw me differently.

After school, I returned to the canteen to collect the money.

Only a little was left — today was a good day.

If there was much left, I usually had to walk around selling until night.

But today, there were only a few breads — so I could go home early.

I walked past Meranti Residence Gate — tall fences, neat gardens, shiny cars.

Just a few steps away, but a completely different world.

“Chiko!” Mr. Burhan, the guard, called from the post.

I walked closer. Only a few leftover breads were in my plastic.

“Got some bread? I’ll take two,” he said.

Mr. Aldi bought one more.

“Tell your mother her cooking is great,” he smiled.

I nodded.

Even small kindness like that felt warm.

Walking home through the alley, I passed hanging laundry, puddles, children kicking a plastic ball, the smell of fried shallots from a small stall. Jakarta was harsh — but sometimes sweet when touched gently.

Mother was bringing in the laundry when I arrived.

“You’re home? Tired?”

I handed her the money.

Her eyes brightened a little.

“Praise the Lord… enough for vegetables today.”

I changed into a clean shirt and switched my shoes for sandals.

Bimo and Sari ran toward me like chicks to their mother.

Inside the bag were a few leftover breads.

Small, simple — but precious.

I split them between my siblings.

Sari ate slowly, like it was a special treat.

Bimo smiled wide with his small bite.

In our house, even leftover bread could taste like happiness.

Night came. A train rumbled past near our window.

The roof clicked with light rain — not sad, but thoughtful.

The room was humid, but a thin blanket was enough.

What warmed me wasn’t the blanket.

It was Alika’s smile replaying in my mind.

For the first time in a long while,

I wanted tomorrow to come quickly.

Not only to sell again…

but to see if she would smile at me once more.

Like a tiny Christmas light in a dark room —

dim, but enough to make me hope.

Maybe it meant something.

I didn’t know yet.

But that night… I waited for tomorrow.

Morning light slipped through the gaps of our tin-roof house.

I woke to the sound of Mother kneading dough, her hands moving in a rhythm she had repeated for years. The smell of flour and yeast filled our tiny room—warm, simple, comforting.

I helped shape the bread while Bimo and Sari still slept, curled like kittens on the thin mattress. When I bent to fold the blankets, my fingers touched something hard beneath the pillow.

A photo album.

Old. Dusty. Hidden.

I knew I shouldn’t open it…

But curiosity is louder than rules.

On the first page, a young woman smiled under soft sunlight. Her long hair flowed over her shoulders, her eyes bright like she had never known struggle.

It was Mother.

Not the mother with tired eyes and rough hands I knew today.

This one looked like someone from a different world—clean, beautiful, glowing.

Beside her stood a teen boy in an expensive school uniform. Confident, handsome, smiling with his arm around her waist.

My heart thumped.

Before I could turn another page—

“Chiko?”

Mother’s voice came from outside.

I snapped the album shut and pushed it under the blanket. My chest felt hot.

She entered with plastic bags of groceries, rainwater dripping from the sides.

“Ready for school?” she asked softly.

I could only nod.

I wanted to ask about the photo, but her gentle eyes stopped my words at my throat.

---

Practice, classes, lunch—everything passed like a blur that day.

Only one thing replayed in my mind: Mother once lived a life far from this cramped home.

After school, I picked up the leftover bread from the canteen. Still so many unsold. That meant I’d be selling again tonight.

On my way home, I passed an empty public elementary school near the railway—usually quiet, abandoned except for community events.

But today it was crowded.

Teachers and neatly dressed students from a prestigious private school stood with boxes of packed meals. Laughter. Clean shoes stepping on muddy ground. A world so different from mine.

“Please line up, one by one,” a teacher said warmly.

Children from the neighborhood gathered with eager eyes. I stood in the back, holding my bag of bread, trying to look small.

At the front table stood a young girl, around fourth grade.

Short hair, clean uniform, small pink clip on her bangs.

Her smile was bright like a candle in the rain.

When it was my turn, she paused—

and stared at me longer than she stared at anyone.

“You’re older, right? Middle school?” she asked softly.

“Grade eight,” I answered, awkward.

She handed me the meal, but her hand didn’t let go right away.

Her eyes scanned my face slowly—confused, curious… almost familiar.

“You look like someone I know,” she whispered.

I blinked.

“Who?”

She shook her head and smiled, gentle and innocent.

“I’m Adel.”

Her name sank into me quietly, like a seed planted deep.

A teacher called her, and she turned away—

and whatever string had formed between us snapped for now.

I walked home with the warm meal in my hands, heart strangely full and empty at the same time.

---

That night, when Mother stepped out to buy oil, I opened the album again—quickly, guiltily.

Another photo.

Young Mother again, standing in front of a grand building that looked exactly like the private school I saw earlier.

Beside her, the same boy from the first picture.

His face… a little like Adel’s.

My heartbeat stumbled.

Footsteps.

I closed the album too late.

Mother entered.

Her eyes went straight to the book in my hand.

“Chiko… you opened this?”

“I—I was just curious, Ma.”

She took the album carefully, like holding a wound.

“Some memories…” her voice trembled,

“…are heavy to carry. You don’t need them yet.”

Questions burst in my head.

Who was the boy?

Why was Adel’s face so familiar?

Why did Mother look so different then?

But Mother’s eyes glistened with unshed tears.

So I swallowed all my questions like stones.

---

We shared the meal I got from Adel’s school that night.

Bimo and Sari ate happily, smiling with rice on their cheeks.

Mother smiled too, though sadness lingered deep behind it.

Rain began again, gentle and patient.

The single light flickered, and our shadows danced on the peeling wall.

I slept with my siblings huddled close, their breaths warm and steady.

My heart felt tight—not painful, but like a door was half-opened to something I wasn’t ready to see.

I didn’t know why.

Just a feeling, quiet and cold, telling me that life could change at any moment.

But for tonight—

we were together,

and that was enough.