CHAPTER 4 – A Night with Candle Light

The morning train passed earlier than usual, shaking the thin walls of our little house. The plastic cups on the shelf rattled softly. Mother had been awake since dawn, kneading dough with practiced hands. Flour dusted her fingers, and her tired palms moved with quiet rhythm.

I helped shape the dough into small pieces.

“Chik, the flour is almost gone,” Mother said without looking up.

“We need to save what’s left.”

I nodded. Words weren’t always necessary between us.

Bimo and Sari were still asleep on our thin mattress, curled close like two kittens. Sari hugged her eyeless doll, Bimo covered his ears from the noise of the train just outside. They looked peaceful — untouched by the weight of life.

When the first bread came out of the small oven, the smell filled the room.

Sari woke up, messy-haired and half-asleep, but her eyes sparkled as she approached the table. Mother handed her a small imperfect piece.

“Careful, it’s hot.”

Sari blew on it, then took a bite and smiled as if it was cake from a fancy store.

Bimo woke next, pulled by the smell. We shared that tiny piece among us, a bite each. Not enough to fill the stomach, but enough to warm the morning.

School hours passed like usual — lessons, notebooks, chalk dust, noisy friends. During break, I checked the canteen for our sales. Many breads were still there, untouched. It had rained earlier, so students stayed indoors.

Mr. Hasan counted the coins and handed them to me gently.

“Not too good today, Chiko,” he said.

I smiled faintly. “It’s okay, Sir. Thank you for letting us sell here.”

He patted my shoulder.

“Keep trying. Maybe tomorrow is better.”

I nodded and carried the leftover bread in a large plastic bag. Today, Mother told me not to walk around to sell because the sky looked like it would rain again.

On my way home, I passed the security post of Meranti Complex — the place of big houses and shiny cars behind tall gates.

“Chiko!”

Mr. Burhan waved. “Got any leftover bread? I’ll take one.”

I offered two small pieces. He bought them without bargaining.

Mr. Aldi, sitting beside him, bought one too.

They chatted about the weather, about streets that flood easily, about teenagers racing motorcycles late at night. Their voices were normal, friendly.

“Stay strong, Chik,” they said as I walked away.

Their simple words felt warmer than the coins in my pocket.

Night came slowly like someone closing a door.

Mother and I sat in the kitchen preparing stuffed tofu for tomorrow morning. She mixed sliced cabbage and carrot, a bit of seasoning, and I filled each tofu pocket carefully.

“We’ll fry them at dawn,” she said. “Fresh ones sell better.”

Bimo sorted coins he saved like treasure, and Sari drew a sun on a torn paper. The house was cramped but alive, full of small sounds and quiet warmth.

Then — the light flickered.

Once.

Twice.

Gone.

The room fell into darkness.

“Oh… blackout again,” Mother sighed, calm as if it was routine.

Outside, neighbors started talking.

> “I think a cable sparked near the electric pole!”

“Yeah, yesterday too — I heard a small popping sound!”

Their voices blended with laughter.

Blackouts weren’t new here.

People continued talking, kids ran with flashlights like fireflies.

I stepped out for a moment.

Some adults lit candles, some used phone flashlights. Children chased each other happily, pretending to be ghosts and scaring one another.

I returned inside with a small candle.

Mother lit it, and the yellow flame made the room look softer — poorer, yes, but somehow gentler.

We ate leftover bread for dinner.

No rice tonight.

But warm bread under candle light felt strangely comforting.

Sari sat close to the flame, eyes reflecting gold.

“Beautiful, Kak,” she whispered.

I smiled. “Yeah… beautiful.”

Bimo dipped bread into warm tea to make it last longer.

Mother ate last, making sure we were full first — or at least full enough.

Rain began tapping lightly on our roof, a soft rhythm that filled the silence with peace instead of sadness.

After eating, we continued filling tofu quietly.

Darkness didn’t stop us. The candle made shadows dance on the wall like paper puppets.

When the candle burned low, Mother said it was enough for today.

She placed the prepared tofu in a container, kept for tomorrow’s sale.

Sari and Bimo were already half-asleep. I helped lift them to the mattress. They curled around me, still smelling like warm bread.

Mother blew out the candle, leaving only the sound of rain and distant train wheels sliding through the night.

Our house was small — narrow, old, and dim.

But tonight didn’t feel heavy.

It was just life.

Simple. Quiet. Real.

I lay between my siblings, listening to their soft breathing.

I didn’t think about tomorrow or the day after.

I just felt the warmth of this moment — the kind of warmth you only notice when the world is dark.

Maybe happiness isn’t loud or bright.

Maybe it’s just three people sharing leftover bread under a candle, tired but together.

We slept close, shoulder to shoulder.

The rain faded slowly.

And the night ended without anything special.

Just another ordinary day —

the kind we never think much about…

until one day, we look back and realize

it was precious.

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