Chapter 1 — A Rainy Night

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.

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