The call to dawn prayer was the only alarm that never failed to wake me.
I rose, walked to the bathroom with half-closed eyes, and performed ablution with cold water that forced my body awake. After prayer and a brief remembrance, I returned to bed.
Today was a day off.
No one waiting.
No one expecting me.
I slept again.
And as always, I woke not from dreams—but from the dull ache in my stomach.
I glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Ten a.m.
I exhaled softly.
Living alone had blurred time itself. Morning and afternoon often felt the same. There was no voice to remind me. No footsteps in this house but my own.
My parents divorced when I was nine. My mother remarried and followed her husband to another village. My father rebuilt his life elsewhere. I stayed with my grandmother.
And now… she was gone too.
A few months ago.
Since then, the house had been filled only with the ticking of the wall clock—and my thoughts.
I had left home before. Returned. Left again.
I had also been married—
to a man I had loved since high school.
We married for love.
Survived for a year and a half.
Collapsed under betrayal.
After that, I left again. Worked. Saved. Until I could finally buy this house and the land beneath it with my own hands.
People called me the pretty widow.
A term that sounded sweet in their mouths—but always felt misplaced in my ears. Married once. No children. Whatever I did became material for whispers.
I didn't care.
At least, I had learned how not to.
At thirty-three, I was still alone. Not because no one came—but because no one had made me certain.
Knock. Knock.
"Assalamu'alaikum, Mbak Silvi?"
I startled and hurried to open the door.
"Wa'alaikumsalam."
Bu Siti stood there, holding a bundle of food.
"This is just a little," she said warmly. "My son got a job at the bank. I cooked extra."
I smiled. "Thank you, Bu. I haven't eaten yet."
She laughed softly. "It's already noon. Eat while it's still warm."
The food was simple—but it carried warmth far beyond my stomach.
On days off, I usually stayed in bed. But today, I turned on a horror movie. Maybe because my life had grown too silent—I needed another sound, even if it was screaming from a screen.
My phone rang.
Vita.
"Got time today?" she asked. "I'm in town. Let's go out."
We went to the beach—our old refuge. We sat on a worn wooden bench as waves rolled in, the sea wind heavy with salt.
Couples passed by, laughing, hands intertwined.
Watching them, I realized something quietly cruel—
loneliness wasn't the absence of people.
It was the absence of certainty.
"Silvi," Vita finally said, "are you happy?"
I stared at the endless blue.
"I'm fine," I replied.
A polite lie.
I lit a cigarette and exhaled slowly, letting the smoke carry what I had never finished grieving.
"I want to love and be loved," I said quietly. "But I'm afraid. Even the closest person can betray you."
She mentioned names. Mature men. Safe choices.
I declined.
Then she mentioned another.
"My nephew," she said. "He asked about you."
I laughed. "Don't be ridiculous. Look at my age."
We went home at dusk.
That night, I cried quietly—not because I wanted something I didn't have,
but because I no longer knew what I wanted.
The next morning, I went to work.
At lunch, a man sat across from us without permission.
"Do you remember me?"
"No."
He smiled anyway.
"I'm Al. We met at the gathering."
I looked at him carefully.
"You're too young," I said calmly. "And whatever this is—it stops here. I don't cross that line."
His smile didn't waver.
"I'm not playing games," he said softly.
I stood and walked away.
But my steps felt heavier.
And for the first time in a long while—
my chest pulsed softly—unwelcome, unfamiliar, and dangerously awake.