EscapeReaders

Author: ali

  • Behind Bars

    Behind Bars

    There should have been two guards watching that block, but one had been absent for three days, reportedly sick with chickenpox. Only one guard remained, pulling double shifts. Unlike most guards with their harsh faces, Guard Martin had a calm, comforting presence.

    That day, a young boy arrived, acting tough at first, but he wept the moment he touched the prison bars.

    “Xavier… Xavier… stop crying,” said the sturdy man. “Do you want to spend your days here weeping, Xavier?”

    He skipped lunch, taking only a few sips of water all day. He thought prison food would be bland, cooked without salt, just something to fill the stomach. He should have eaten at noon; now his fingers trembled.

    “Xavier, eat,” the guard said. “You won’t get through the day without food. The food here isn’t as bad as you think. Eat, Xavier.”

    Xavier gave in. He touched the steel bowl gently, sniffed the thick soup that looked tasteless, scooped a bit, and tasted it. His tongue barely registered flavor, but his stomach was grateful. Slowly, he ate the soup until it was gone. He let out a small burp after drinking.

    “Xavier… Xavier, now you’re full,” the guard said. “Don’t be sad anymore.”

    Five months ago, a protest had swept through the city center. Thousands poured into the streets, demanding fair wages, a stand against the sudden cuts imposed by the port authorities that had left workers struggling. Xavier was there, far in the back, watching his father speak with a voice full of fire. Xavier knew what they were fighting for. For an hour, thousands sat in the streets, clapping, raising fists, shouting words of defiance.

    It wasn’t the first protest, but it was the first to turn chaotic. It started with a tear gas canister that fell among the crowd, fired by a young officer—by mistake. A protester threw it back, and it landed right in front of the police line. The police fired more tear gas, then charged. Thousands scattered, fleeing into narrow alleys, hiding, or putting up a small fight. But that wasn’t why Xavier ended up in this prison.

    “Poor Xavier,” the guard said. “So young, and already in this cursed place. I feel for you, Xavier.”

    There was no clock on the wall. No window or crack to show if night had come. The only sign was when the cell lights went out, marking nine o’clock.

    Xavier approached the iron bars, gripping them. They were cold.

    “Xavier… Xavier, sleep,” the guard said. “Tomorrow will be heavy. Every day here is heavy. Prison isn’t a place for idling, as you might think. Until the time comes, everyone has their schedule. I can’t stay with you forever. Rest, Xavier.”

    Footsteps echoed, then the corridor door opened. Another sturdy man appeared, keys jangling at his belt. He stopped beside Xavier and said, “Go home, kid. You did good work today. Be back before eight tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

    Xavier watched the man disappear through the door. He admired him, felt deep gratitude. Without him, visiting his father so freely would have been nearly impossible.

    It had been three months since he’d seen his father. His mother had visited twice, navigating complicated procedures. Xavier had tried several times to see his father, only to be stopped by a guard.

    “Go away! Prison’s no place for kids,” said a guard named Ruiz.

    He returned a week later and was turned away again. This time, it was a kinder, heavier guard.

    “No Guiterrez here, kid,” said Guard Ramos. “Try the District Prison.”

    The next week, he came back, and Ruiz sent him away again.

    “No visits today!” Ruiz snapped.

    A month later, Xavier returned, but not as a visitor. The guard he spoke to seemed older than his father, thin, tall, and very busy. Without looking at him, the guard said, “Cleaning jobs are registered at the south lobby.”

    That was how it happened, how he found a way to see his father. He’d learned about the cleaning job from the wife of his father’s friend, who visited her husband—the man Xavier knew as Guard Martin. The hiring process should have been difficult; he was still too young. But Guard Martin helped him get through. With a convincing tone, he told the interviewer that Xavier was a hard worker who could be paid cheaply.

    It was 9:15 p.m. In fifteen minutes, the last bus to his village would come. He looked at the sturdy man behind the bars.

    “Xavier, my son,” the man said, his face emerging from the dark. “Give my regards to your mother. Tell her your father is doing fine.”

    *      *      *

  • John and Sam

    John and Sam


    John sat lost in thought, his chair tilted back against the post of the porch, an old book clutched in his hand, one he’d read time and again. He had a habit of revisiting the stories he loved, and this one—well, this one was dear to him. It was Sam’s favorite, too.

    Folks knew John Cotton as a fine-looking fellow, with sun-browned skin, a sturdy frame, and a smile that could charm the stars from the sky. There wasn’t a woman in town who didn’t take a shine to him. But who’d have guessed that lately, the man seemed fragile as a butterfly’s wing? John still carried the sting of Sam’s last words, words that had cracked his heart clean through:

    “I understand how you feel, John, but I’ve chosen a normal life with the one I truly love. We’ll always be friends, of course. I’m heading to Edna next month with my sister.”

    Come August, John boarded a plane to Edna, his heart a tangle of hope and dread. In the taxi from the airport, he spilled his story to the driver, recounting the first time he laid eyes on Sam, up on the second floor of their office. He mentioned there were three Sams at the firm: Samantha Lee, the auditor; Samantha Maxwell, the secretary; and then there was his Sam, the one who’d stolen his heart.

    Sam had only been at the office a few months back then, young and brimming with fire. At first, John figured he was drawn to Sam because they shared a love for books, both devoted to the same writer. The cabbie, listening with a keen ear, tossed in a word or two as they rolled along:

    “That’s something, pal.” … “I’m starting to take a liking to this Sam myself.” … “Want me to play some Samantha Sang tunes?” … “You’re a patient man, I’ll give you that.” … and finally, “Looks like we’re here.”

    The sun blazed fierce, the wind kicked up leaves and dust into the sky, and brittle trees lined the road like weary sentinels. Sam’s house stood behind a white picket fence, its yard sprawling wide. There, on the top step, sat the Sam of John’s dreams, nose buried in a book.

    “Howdy, Sam,” John called out.

    Sam glanced up, a smile breaking across that familiar face. “I’m well. You?”

    “Same as you see. Doing fine.”

    “Take a seat.”

    John settled beside Sam, stealing a quick look at the book in hand before saying, “Still the same writer?”

    Sam’s smile widened.

    Just then, the front door swung open, and out stepped a woman, lovely as a summer dawn. She sat close to Sam, resting a hand on Sam’s shoulder. Sam made the introductions.

    “This is Karen,” Sam said. “My wife.”

    “You must be John,” Karen said, extending her hand. They shook, and John managed a nod.

    Now, you might be wondering why Sam called this woman wife.

    See, between John and Sam, there’d once been a spark, though it flickered differently for each. Sam admired John as a kind boss, nothing more. But John? His feelings for Sam ran deep, tender, and a touch sentimental.

    “Good to meet you,” John said, shaking Karen’s hand.

    “Sam’s told me about you,” Karen replied.

    “Is that so, Sam?” John asked.

    Sam just smiled again.

    “Sam’s mentioned you plenty, too,” John went on, reaching into his bag. He pulled out a small package and handed it to Karen. “This was meant for Sam, but I reckon Sam won’t mind if I give it to you instead… a token of new friendship.”

    Karen unwrapped it, revealing a handsomely bound book with a card tucked atop it. Stroking her rounded belly, she read the note aloud for Sam’s benefit:

    To Samuel Simmons,
    Friendship forever,
    John J. Cotton.

    “Awfully touching,” Karen said, her voice warm with admiration for the bond they shared.

    *      *      *

  • The Bar

    The Bar

    Marc-O sat on the edge of St. Pranos, a small town where the air smelled of salt and diesel. The bar served cold beer, sharp cocktails, briny wines, assorted nuts, and thick, charred harbor steaks. It hummed from nine in the morning until it closed at two in the night. Patrons swapped stories of fish, ships, weather, and soccer, their voices echoing as if the walls held their secrets. At the end of each month, men from the North rolled in with their battered trucks, hunting for work on the boats, forcing the owner to borrow extra chairs and tables from the church or school. That was Marc-O: loud, crowded, alive.

    Then came the event that turned St. Pranos into a ghost town, as if its people had been driven out. The robbery at Marc-O was swift, silent, and brutal—a massacre, they called it. Twelve men died horribly, their names whispered only in shadows, as if speaking them might summon the past. Fear settled over the town like ash. No one could say if St. Pranos would ever feel the same. Police and detectives came and went, but the killer remained a shadow, uncaught.

    After six months, the town began to breathe again—slowly, but steadily. Bars, cafés, and restaurants reopened at night, music drifted once more, cars from out of town lined the streets, and people lingered without looking over their shoulders. But Marc-O stayed dark for a full year. Danniel, the owner’s son, worked to bury the trauma, renovating it completely: adding string lights, a small stage for music and shows, and a new name, O’Dann, taken from his own, Danniel O’Brian, signaling new management.

    Danniel was pleased with his efforts, though at times he paused, staring at the quiet bar as if waiting for it to stir. But it was only temporary. After two months, O’Dann grew lively again, though its warmth felt fragile, like a candle flame blown by the wind. The old owner, now rarely seen, spent his days elsewhere, returning only to sit in the shadows, watching. That night, two years after the tragedy, he was there.

    Rain poured in sheets. The owner sat facing the door, feet propped on a table, a cigarette between his fingers, its ash lengthening and dissolving before it touched the table. His eyes stared out, lost in thought—or perhaps waiting for someone.

    Nearby, his waiter wiped a table, the rag circling endlessly, tracing faint lines that seemed to form the silhouette of a face he once knew. Danniel stood behind the counter, his gaze flicking to them with unease, his breath misting in the chill air. The waiter worked diligently, but the table held a stubborn red stain, like blood that wouldn’t fade.

    The last customer arrived five minutes before closing: a tall man in round glasses and a cowboy hat, his face etched with weariness. He sat near the window, removed his hat, and placed it on the table, his movements slow, as if drawn back by a weight he couldn’t shake. Danniel held his breath, his fists clenching, sensing the man’s return wasn’t new. The waiter paused, glanced at the man, then resumed wiping, focusing on that permanent red stain.

    The owner studied the tall man’s face. It felt familiar. Surely he’d been here before. He admitted his memory for faces had faded lately. Age, he supposed, dulled his recall.

    “You know that guy?” he asked the waiter, his voice sharp, the air colder, the string lights dimming for a moment.

    The waiter didn’t answer, his rag moving without pause.

    “Useless,” the owner muttered.

    A waitress approached the tall man, who ordered a bottle of beer. “Something else?” she asked. “No,” he replied, his voice low, strained. From behind the counter, Danniel watched him closely, his eyes lingering on the table, where a name from that night seemed to flicker. He wouldn’t let history repeat itself—not like the night that shattered everything.

    The tall man removed his glasses, pulled a worn notebook from his jacket, its pages frayed from countless nights like this, and began writing, his pen pausing over a name, his fingers trembling with quiet despair. The waitress delivered the beer, took the money, and hurried back, stepping wide of the owner’s table as if pushed by an unseen force.

    The owner sat up straighter, swearing he recognized the tall man. The waiter stopped wiping, slammed his rag down, and said, “He’s the idiot detective who investigated our murders two years ago.” The words hung in the air, and the tall man’s pen stilled, his gaze turning to the waiter—as if he’d heard a voice from the grave.

    *      *      *

  • Polar Bear

    Polar Bear

    The injury was slight, a dull ache that couldn’t rival the gnawing anxiety, like a breath caught in the frozen air. The sun offered no warmth, no birdsong broke the silence, no green grass softened the landscape. It wasn’t pleasant, but Steve tried to stay calm, whispering Jenny’s name. His eyes remained shut, for how long he couldn’t say—perhaps forever, perhaps only a moment. The snow didn’t pile higher, though it dusted his face, half-burying his body, stirred occasionally by the wind.

    “Goddamn, my back.”

    He said it with too much drama. No broken spine, no serious wounds, just the emotional weight of loneliness that made him complain about his back. He’d fallen from a helicopter, not too high, landing on soft snow with a jolt to his spine, right above his rifle. Hours earlier, he’d been with the WWF, fitting Bearie Polie with a tracker collar to gather vital data for polar bear conservation. Steve had been struck by its eyes—two small, sharp black points, like obsidian, holding the secrets of the Arctic.

    Right now, polar bears were no longer the cuddly giants he’d dreamed of hugging as a child. Before he’d ended up stranded here, he’d sometimes laughed recalling those days: glued to the Discovery Channel, never missing a polar bear segment. His father had bought him a large polar bear plush, despite forbidding his sons from playing with dolls. But a polar bear was an exception.

    “Look at your brother Jim,” his father had said, seeing Steve engrossed in the TV. “He wants to be a polar bear expert.”

    “Steve’s gonna join the WWF, Dad!”

    His father and Jim were researchers, biologists, while Steve was the third generation in a family of animal lovers—his grandfather an ornithologist, his father a reptile specialist, Jim a fish expert. Steve loved animals but wasn’t a polar bear or Arctic specialist. He was a finance guy at a software company, funding polar bear conservation expeditions for the past three years. This was his second year, and he was determined to ensure no more bears were lost to poaching or malnutrition. (Who even wrote that report about starving polar bears?)

    The WWF had taught him to use sophisticated Chinese-made equipment and implant trackers on polar bears. They hadn’t, however, taught him how to survive alone in the Arctic or make a polar bear laugh. Steve hoped today wouldn’t be his last, especially since he wasn’t likely to starve—he’d fallen with canned food, a hunting rifle, and some pricey WWF gear, though he couldn’t find his phone after an hour of searching.

    For a while, Steve felt better. The wind was gentle, the sun shone on his face, dispelling the dark shadows of despair. A sharp sound came from a black digital box beside him.

    “Bip… Bip… Bip…”

    That sound? Steve thought, eyes still closed. He focused, the rhythm reminding him of music he hadn’t heard in years. It was the PBIS (Polar Bear Information System), a military-grade tablet costing five thousand dollars, loaded with data on bear body temperature, weight, and recent meals. Only twenty units existed, made exclusively for the WWF and top universities.

    Hope flickered. He could pinpoint his location, the ship’s, and the tracked bears’. A green dot marked the monitored bear’s position; a red dot showed the device’s. Bad news: the green dot was moving toward the red—toward him.

    “Damn it.”

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  • The Last Jump

    The Last Jump

    Last Friday, Mr. Hartono, your school principal, called you to his office. You’d skipped school three days in a row.

    Mr. Hartono never seemed tired of seeing you. You, on the other hand, were fed up with being in that room. It was your second time in a month being summoned to the principal’s office.

    Mr. Hartono was wearing his favorite black cap and a short-sleeved green batik shirt. His mustache twitched up and down, and bits of spit flew as he rambled about how he never missed a day of school, even when he had to walk 10 kilometers to get there.

    Instead of listening to his lecture, your eyes were glued to a fly perched on his cap.

    What a creepy creature! you thought, fixating on its red eyes.

    Your wild imagination pictured the tiny monster buzzing into Mr. Hartono’s ear, spreading a virus in his brain. In seconds, he’d freeze like a statue, his eyes rolling back, and before long, your principal would be a full-blown zombie.

    I’ve got to stop it!

    You grabbed a thick dictionary from the desk and swung it at Mr. Hartono’s head.

    WHACK!

    Mr. Hartono staggered, his cap tilting to the left. His ears rang, and his vision blurred.

    You hit him hard—really hard—for just a fly. Unfortunately, you weren’t fast enough. The fly escaped.

    At that moment, Mr. Ujang, the school janitor, had just opened the door to place a glass of sweet tea on the principal’s desk. He froze when he saw you smack the principal, then quietly closed the door and waited for you to leave.

    A minute later, Mr. Hartono was back to normal, though a faint ringing lingered in his ears. He smiled, cleared his throat twice, and adjusted his cap. This kid must be going through a rough patch, he thought. Everyone knew Mr. Hartono was a patient man.

    “I’m not blaming you, kid,” he said in a fatherly tone. “You’re a good kid at heart. You just need a little attention.”

    Where’d that fly go?

    Your eyes darted around, searching for the creature.

    “When I was your age, I got into trouble too,” Mr. Hartono began, launching into a story about his childhood. “It was during Ramadan, and I deliberately hit the drum half an hour early…” His voice faded into a distant hum.

    You had your own theories about that fly. One: it was a robot with electric legs that could make humans obey its controller’s commands. Two: it was the result of a failed experiment, carrying a new virus that could spark a zombiloma outbreak.

    “…and that’s what I was like as a kid,” Mr. Hartono said, wrapping up his story. “I hope you can learn from it. Now, you can head back to class.”

    But his voice barely registered. You were too busy watching another fly on the corner of the desk.

    “Ahem, ahem. You can go now, kid,” Mr. Hartono repeated.

    Your hand reached for the book, ready to swing again.

    Stay still, you ugly thing!

    “Hey! Are you listening?” Mr. Hartono raised his voice, louder than he’d ever spoken to a student.

    You flinched, and the fly vanished.

    Damn it!

    “You can go.”

    You stood up without a word of apology or thanks, then walked out, filled with unease.

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  • At a Distance

    At a Distance

    At a Distance

    Deni had just bought some satay for the family’s dinner when he saw Mr. Rosidi step out of the mosque. He paused for a moment, waiting until the man turned into the alley.

    He entered the same narrow path and spotted Mr. Rosidi not far ahead. Deni walked slowly, then stopped, letting the man gain more distance. When it seemed far enough, he resumed walking—matching his pace to maintain a careful distance.

    But Mr. Rosidi moved very slowly. The sixty-five-year-old even stopped now and then for no obvious reason, prompting Deni to consider overtaking him and saying, “Excuse me, sir.”

    That was all he ever managed to say when passing older people—along with a polite “sir” and a slight bow when crossing paths face to face. He didn’t know how to say more. He was only seventeen and not used to making conversation with the elderly.

    But in the end, he didn’t do it. He stopped in his tracks when he noticed that farther ahead—well beyond Mr. Rosidi—there was someone else walking just as slowly. Very, very slowly.

    “Maybe that’s why Mr. Rosidi’s been walking so slowly,” he thought. “But… who is that?”

    Deni was a little nearsighted and hadn’t brought his glasses, so he squinted before finally recognizing the man. It was Mr. Joko—the head of neighborhood unit 13. Everyone knew Mr. Joko walked at a glacial pace. Age was part of it, but he’d also had a stroke two years ago.

    Mr. Joko came to a stop when a heavyset man approached—Manto, the neighborhood security guard. The two began discussing something that seemed serious. Meanwhile, a short distance behind them, Mr. Rosidi stood behind the thick hedge of house No. 60, occasionally peeking toward the pair.

    Feeling it would take forever to wait them out, Deni turned around and headed home by another route. As he walked, he stopped, smiled, then kept walking, realizing even a respected elder like Mr. Rosidi shared the same thought of not passing someone older.

    *      *      *

  • Too Bad, We Left No Memories

    Too Bad, We Left No Memories

    I chose to take shelter in the grand, white-painted house because its shaded parking terrace seemed a safe haven from the relentless rain. Dusk was settling, and no lights glowed inside, making me think the house was empty. That was my first assumption, though perhaps the owners were away and could return at any moment. In a storm like this, wasn’t it common for the power to go out?

    The wind roared, wild and unsteady, pushing me to find better cover. Drifting toward the right side of the house, I paused by what seemed to be the kitchen door. This spot was safer, except for the splashes of muddy water staining my shoes and pants. A storm this fierce could last a day, maybe longer, and I wouldn’t leave until the rain stopped. To fill the silence, I hummed Wuthering Heights, its melody lingering in my mind.

    I’d been there awhile when the door beside me creaked open slightly. At first, I thought the wind had nudged it, but the breeze here was gentler than at the front, and the door opened outward. Pulling the door wider, I peered into the dimness.

    “Hello? Anyone there?”

    Three calls echoed unanswered, no sound of the door stirring. After a couple of minutes with no response, I stepped inside. I knew the risk—being mistaken for a thief—but I hoped the owner might pity my shivering, soaked state, unlikely as it seemed.

    Water trickled from my shoes, pooling on the cold tile, my drenched clothes clinging heavy with the scent of rain. I’d clean the mess later, I told myself, my thoughts bent on warmth. I peeled off my shoes, propping them against the damp wall—my toes pale, wrinkled, drained of color. My jacket hung on a door hook, its damp weight sagging against the wood; my soaked shirt, wrung over the sink, draped across a chair. Pausing, I reached for my jeans—I swear, the stove flared to life, untouched by any hand. A ghost?

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  • Bakso

    Bakso

    My little sister, who had just turned ten, suddenly invited me to grab a bowl of bakso urat spesial at a meatball stall across from the high school, not far from our house. I knew the place—it had only opened a week ago. Word was, the food was delicious, and the stall was already drawing a crowd.

    We arrived around ten-thirty, and she told me to order whatever I wanted.

    “Don’t worry, I’m treating,” she said with a grin.

    I glanced at the menu and chose bakso urat spesial, chewy tendon meatballs in rich broth—something we always loved but couldn’t have often.

    “Drink?” she asked.

    “Sweet iced tea, Boss,” I teased.

    She ordered two bowls of bakso urat spesial and two glasses of sweet iced tea.

    We were just chatting when our steaming bowls arrived. Her eyes gleamed, ready to dive in.

    “Let’s eat, Sis!” she said, grabbing her spoon and fork. She doctored her bowl with salt, sweet soy sauce, chili sauce, and a dollop of sambal.

    When it comes to spicy food, we’re practically twins. I poured a generous amount of chili sauce and sambal into my bowl and stirred it in. The broth was rich and flavorful, the meatballs perfectly chewy.

    My sister was way ahead of me, though. She was down to one big meatball, her reddish broth nearly gone, and her iced tea half-empty. She wiped the sweat from her forehead with her sleeve, her eyes watering from the spice.

    We didn’t eat bakso often. But for her tenth birthday, she cracked open her piggy bank to treat us both—even with me still out of work.

    She devoured her last meatball, slurped every bit of broth, drained her iced tea, and let out a soft burp. Her eyes sparkled as she grinned at me. “Sis, that was awesome.”

    *      *      *

  • A Pause for Siomay

    A Pause for Siomay

    Before dawn, Aris stirred, reached for the towel hanging from the door hook, and trudged to the bathroom. The rainy season turned the water to ice, but he barely flinched anymore. A cockroach caught in the shower’s spray skittered across the rusted drain cover, flailing in a shallow puddle before darting beneath the door. A narrow escape—Aris would have crushed it without a second thought.

    He prayed at dawn in the mosque, his shirt unpressed but carefully hung to avoid creases. His trousers, on their second day, sagged slightly; his socks, unchanged for a week, clung to his feet; his shoes, rarely cleaned, carried the city’s grit. At 6:05 a.m., he stepped out into a downpour.

    Fifteen minutes later, he reached the station, slipping through a crowd to board a packed train. One hand gripped the overhead rail, steadying him against the jostle of bodies. He gazed out the rain-streaked window, his thoughts circling the same worn paths—yesterday’s, and the days before.

    At 7:22 a.m., he arrived at the office, clothes damp, umbrella left dripping by the pantry terrace. He stowed his bag under his desk, swapped shoes for flip-flops, and hoped for a moment with his book. But a stack of urgent notes awaited him.

    Aris worked in the file room, handling loans, sorting, logging, and tidying stacks of documents. The job, seemingly simple, demanded patience, precision, and stamina. He processed twelve loan requests with brisk efficiency. By 8:30 a.m., as the morning rush began, staff lined up, clamoring for files.

    He never gave priority to latecomers, even those who name-dropped managers or directors—a quiet firmness that earned quiet respect. For misplaced files—often left unreturned or buried on someone else’s desk—he’d ask staff to track them down themselves.

    The relentless tasks left no room for lunch unless he locked the file room door. He often ate in that cramped space, sometimes locking himself in for a brief reprieve, leaving colleagues to wait or scribble notes on slips left on his desk.

    For his first eighteen months, a senior colleague, four years his elder in the role, had worked beside him. Two years later, that colleague moved to the third floor, leaving Aris alone. Now, his tenure nearly matched his senior’s when he’d started, though the workload had doubled.

    In the quiet of that room, time drifted by—undisturbed. Just Aris, his tasks, and the soft hum of Sheila on 7.

    He left only for the bathroom or afternoon prayers, then sank back into sorting, logging, arranging.

    The office closed at 5:00 p.m., but Aris kept his own hours. After prepping files for the next day, he’d linger with a book. Reading had always been his refuge—he’d read just about anything. Lately, he’d been savoring his first English novel, page by slow page.

    At 5:28 p.m., the janitor swept through, collecting trash by his desk and dousing the lights in the empty room next door.

    He left at 7:30 p.m., reading on the bus and at the station platform. The train home was quiet enough for a seat, but his tired eyes couldn’t follow the page. Instead, his mind drifted to the same worries—yesterday’s, today’s, tomorrow’s.

    He was a law graduate, meant for a legal office—not a windowless file room. But Aris wasn’t one for self-interest. His father’s retirement loomed next month; one sibling was in college, another in eighth grade. Supporting the family on this job would be grueling unless he found something better—or struck out on his own. These thoughts trailed him on every commute.

    He stepped off at Bekasi Station at 9:11 p.m., merging with a stream of weary faces. Ojek drivers called out at the gate, their voices cutting through the night. “It’s close,” he said, waving them off. He crossed a sluggish road, turned from the main drag, and followed a shadowed path behind buildings, where a river murmured and trees sighed in the breeze. Past a scavengers’ cart lot and a row of food stalls, he turned at the fifth corner, climbed the pedestrian bridge over the quiet highway, and paused at a shop’s edge to buy a plate of siomay from a tukang siomay.

    Aris stopped by twice a week, sometimes thrice when the craving struck. For ten thousand rupiah, the siomay matched the plate he’d relished at Cikini Station a year ago. In that still moment, his final pause before the short walk home, he savored each bite—dumpling, potato, cabbage, tofu—lost in the quiet.

    *      *      *

    Siomay: a popular Indonesian steamed dumpling, often served with peanut sauce and vegetables.

  • On a Park Bench

    On a Park Bench

    Last night, when we were about to scare people in the park, Nancy, our friend, suddenly cried. We invited her to sit on the park bench, then asked her, “Why are you crying?”

    While holding back her tears, she said that earlier that afternoon, for the first time, her mother visited her grave.

    *      *      *