Four months had passed since those words tore her life apart. Four months since Azalea walked out of the house she had once called her little paradise. In that time, she had learned to accept a bitter truth: the love she had fought to preserve with patience had never truly been fought for by her husband.
Now she stood before her parents' old house. Cracks veined the walls. The paint had flaked away, leaving behind a dull, sun-bleached ghost of its former color. The roof tilted slightly to the left, as though the structure itself had been bowed under the weight of all the grief that had lived within it.
But to Azalea, this was more than a crumbling building. This was where she had grown up. Where her mother's laughter once filled the small kitchen every morning. Where her father used to sit on the porch, sipping black coffee while waiting for the dawn call to prayer. Where she and her older sister had chased each other across the yard, laughing without knowing how cruelly time would tear them apart.
Now the yard was silent. Only the wind stirred the dry leaves.
"You're not going to sell this place, are you, Lea?"
The voice of old Iip—the village elder who had been like a grandfather to her—broke through her reverie. He stood with a wooden cane in hand, gazing at the house with sorrowful eyes.
Azalea smiled faintly. A gentle smile, but one that held too many wounds beneath it.
"No, Uncle," she said quietly. "This is the only place I have left. My parents and my sister are all buried here. Even if I leave for the city, I'll always come back."
Old Iip nodded slowly. His eyes glistened.
"The house is old," he murmured. "But the memories inside it never fade."
Azalea lowered her head. Her chest felt warm and aching at the same time.
"I'll have someone come by to clean it now and then," he continued. "So it doesn't fall apart completely."
"Thank you, Uncle." She managed a small laugh, trying to lighten the weight of the moment. "If any visitors from outside the village need a place to stay, they're welcome to use it. As long as they take care of it."
In their small village there was no inn. When outsiders came on business or just passing through, Azalea's house was often where they stayed. The old building still held more worth than she did in her ex-husband's eyes.
That evening, after visiting the graves of her parents and sister, Azalea sat beside their headstones for a long time.
"Mom… Dad… Sis," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I'm going to the city. I'm going to start over."
A breeze caught the edge of her headscarf. "I don't have anyone left. But I promise—I won't give up."
Tears fell, darkening the soil of the graves.
The city greeted her with punishing heat and clouds of dust. The moment she stepped off at the bus terminal, Azalea clutched her backpack tight. The world felt enormous and alien. People streamed past without caring who she was, where she'd come from, or what wounds she carried.
A small prayer room stood not far from the terminal. Azalea hurried toward it—the midday prayer window was nearly closed. She washed for prayer with water warmed by the relentless sun, then stood in the back row and prayed with a heart full of desperate hope.
In her prostration, she wept. Oh God, I'm not asking for a life of luxury. I only want honest work. I want to stand on my own two feet. Please, help me. The prayer was barely a whisper, but it carried the force of absolute faith.
After prayer, she sat and scrolled through job listings on her phone until the afternoon prayer. After that, she stepped out with slightly steadier legs. A neighbor back home had mentioned some cheap rentals and industrial areas that were always hiring. "As long as you're not picky about the work," they'd said.
Azalea had no intention of being picky. With only a vocational school diploma, she didn't have many options. Housekeeping, janitorial work, shop attendant—anything was fine, as long as it was honest.
"Rajawali Street," she muttered, squinting at a street sign. She didn't realize the address she was actually looking for was on a different road entirely.
Her wandering took her into a district of towering buildings. Massive glass facades caught the sunlight and threw it back in blinding sheets. Luxury cars glided past—the evening commute was in full swing.
Azalea felt small. She stood in the middle of a world that gleamed with wealth while she carried nothing but a worn bag and fragile hope.
Lost and confused, she kept walking toward a nearby intersection. Then her eyes caught something—a little girl darting into the road, chasing a pink ball that bounced freely across the pavement.
"Watch out!" Azalea screamed.
But the child only laughed, oblivious to the chorus of car horns.
"Miss Elora!" A middle-aged woman cried out from the opposite sidewalk, her voice panicked.
In the span of a heartbeat, Azalea spotted a motorcycle weaving through traffic at high speed. Her body moved before her mind could catch up. She ran. Her legs felt weightless and leaden at the same time. The world seemed to slow. Horns blared. Wind struck her face. Her arms reached out.
In a single motion, she snatched the ball and scooped the child into her arms, pulling her tight against her chest as the motorcycle shot past, inches from where they'd stood. Her heart hammered wildly. Her knees buckled as she stumbled to the curb.
The little girl stared up at her with wide, clear eyes.
"Miss Elora! Are you okay?" The middle-aged woman rushed over.
Azalea handed the child over with still-trembling hands. "Is she hurt?" she asked anxiously.
The woman—Minah, as the girl called her—nodded rapidly, her face white. "Thank God… thank God."
But the little girl shoved away from her. "Don't carry me, Minah!" she whined, grabbing the ball back from Azalea.
"I was worried something happened to you, sweetie. Your daddy will be so angry with me." Minah's voice shrank to nearly nothing.
"Minah's so annoying!" Elora slammed the ball down. "I wanna play with Daddy! Go away!"
Azalea watched in silence, her heart aching. A child this small, already lashing out at someone who clearly cared about her.
"But Daddy said he's busy, sweetheart. You can play tomorrow," Minah coaxed.
"No!" Elora burst into tears and threw herself on the ground in a full tantrum.
That cry wasn't just bratty frustration. There was loneliness woven into it.
Azalea crouched slowly in front of the girl. "Your name is Elora?" she asked gently, extending her hand. "I'm Azalea. You can call me Aunt Lea."
Elora looked up at her through wet lashes.
"Do you like playing with your ball?" Azalea smiled warmly.
Elora rubbed her eyes. "You wanna play with me?"
The question was simple, but something inside Azalea tore. She remembered how badly she had once longed to hear a child call her Mom. That chance had never been given to her.
It was getting late. She should have been searching for a rental. Looking for the right address. But seeing that small, tear-streaked face, she couldn't bring herself to say no.
"Just for a little while, okay? Then you have to go home."
Elora's face lit up instantly. Her smile stretched wide.
They played ball in the parking lot of one of those gleaming towers. Azalea laughed for the first time in months. The laughter was light and genuine, even though a corner of her heart still throbbed with unhealed pain.
Elora ran in little circles, her twin pigtails bouncing. Minah stood nearby, watching with quiet relief.
The sunset call to prayer echoed across the city. Azalea stopped the game. "Elora, it's getting dark. Time to go home."
"No! Wanna play with Auntie!" Elora pouted.
"Elora, let's go!" A man's voice came from behind them.
In an instant, Elora abandoned Azalea and sprinted away. "Daddy!"
Azalea turned. Her feet stopped. Her breath caught. The world seemed to stop spinning.
"E-Enzo…?" The name barely left her lips.
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