.Kalimba

For a moment, I felt drowned—lost in the melody and scene before me. I nearly forgot time and place, until suddenly it all stopped. The kalimba fell silent, pulling me back into reality.

"Eh? Why are you crying, sir?"

Her soft voice broke the quiet, making me turn slowly. She was looking at me with pity in her eyes.

Honestly, I hadn’t even realized my tears had gathered. I thought I was strong enough to hold them back—like always.

I thought I could manage it, hide it behind a faint smile, or tilt my head to the sky so they wouldn’t fall.

“Did I play the wrong song? Did I remind you of something painful?”

Her question came gently, with genuine concern. Her gaze carried guilt, as if she felt responsible for something she never intended.

That only left me more silent—as if I were a fragile creature that could break from the mere pluck of a small instrument and the unintentional attention of a stranger.

“N-No, it’s fine. Your playing was beautiful. I… I was really moved.”

I spoke as I wiped the tears streaming down my cheeks, leaving a salty trace on my lips.

I forced a smile, though my face felt heavy—as if I was trying to convince both her and myself that everything was fine. But deep inside, I knew something was slowly collapsing.

...

After things calmed down, when my tears finally eased, I pulled out my wallet again. I handed her another fifty-thousand rupiah.

But she just looked at me, confused. Her brows furrowed, her eyes questioning. She didn’t take it right away.

"But sir, you already gave me money earlier... so what's this money for?" she asked softly, curious but not rejecting.

“Appreciation. Just think of it as a bonus,” I said with a small shrug.

She still looked at me with an expression of astonishment. Her eyes blinked slowly, as if she didn't quite believe it. Perhaps for her, this wasn't an everyday occurrence.

She blinked, still looking surprised. Maybe for her, this wasn’t normal. Perhaps, in her life as a street musician, it was rare for someone to truly notice her playing—let alone cry because of it, pay twice, and call it moving.

"If you'd like, sir," she said, her voice brightening a little, “I can play another song that fits the play. ‘Simfoni Hitam?’ ‘Sandaran Hati?’ ‘Tercipta Untukku?’ I can play those… or even try something else, if you’d like.” Her tone was light, filled with innocent cheer.

“N-No, thank you…” I replied softly, my voice still shaky. “I… I think I’ll go now. Somewhere else.”

I stood, ready to leave. But before I could take a step, I felt her hand—light, but firm enough to stop me.

I turned back. She was holding my wrist.

"Are you having a problem, sir? If so... it's okay to tell me."

I froze. It was the first time I looked at her face fully—and I caught a glimpse of sorrow in her expression.

There was something there—an uncommon sincerity. For a brief moment, it made me hesitate.

She was, admittedly, pretty. But more than that, the compassion on her face wasn’t fake—not the cheap sympathy I’d often seen from coworkers.

“It’s okay. If you have a problem, just tell me… I’ll listen,” she said again.

Then, without hesitation, she took my other hand and held them both.

It startled me. We didn’t even know each other’s names. Yet she did this, as if it were natural.

I lowered my gaze. Afraid. Afraid her eyes might be too deep, might dig up wounds I had buried.

Afraid that my tears, already so fragile, would fall again.

Afraid that the hopes I had killed long ago might reignite—just because of her gaze.

I took a deep breath, steadying my chest. Gathering courage, I lifted my face.

“Thank you for your kindness,” I said as calmly as I could. “But really, I’m fine. Maybe I’m just… tired, and need some rest.”

At my words, I noticed a small change in her expression. Her grip loosened slightly—but not fully. Enough for me to gently pull my hands away.

She then reached into her worn bag, pulling out a small notebook. She tore a page, scribbled something, and handed it to me.

“This is my phone number,” she said. “If you ever need help, don’t hesitate to call, okay?”

Her voice was soft, but this time firm. She didn’t leave room for refusal. Even as I hesitated, she pressed the paper into my hand, closing my fingers around it.

...

At last, I continued northward. My steps were slow, the street around me quieter.

From afar, I looked back once more. She was still there, waving gently—not just a goodbye, but almost like… a prayer that I’d be okay.

As I walked, thoughts swirled again, whispers I usually ignored. And I couldn’t stop myself from wondering—What if…?

What if she had come into my life earlier? Just a little sooner? Maybe—just maybe—I could have chosen differently.

But now, it was far too late. Too much had already broken. Nothing left to fix. Everything rusted, beyond repair.

I had walked three-quarters of the way. My legs grew heavy, my pace slowed.

The brief encounter had drained me more than I expected.

So I stopped. On an old bench by the roadside, I let my body sink, shedding the invisible weight.

With a sigh, I pulled out my phone. My fingers moved automatically, opening my messages. Maybe—just maybe—there would be something. A friend. An old contact. Or, if I was lucky, someone asking, Where are you?

But no. Nothing.

Instead, my eyes landed on a message I should have deleted long ago. A message from my boss.

Useless work. Just adding to office overhead. Go die.

Cruel. But that’s how he saw me. For him, being an office boy was the lowest caste—work for slaves, to be ordered and insulted.

But never mind. Let it be. Maybe tomorrow, his anger would fade. Or maybe… he’d be happy. Happy knowing that the useless man he despised was gone.

Feeling my rest was enough, I stood again.

But before I could take more than a few steps, a hand grabbed my wrist from behind.

Annoyance flared—I thought it was her again, the kalimba girl.

But it wasn’t.

Before me stood another woman—slightly older than me.

Judging by her appearance, I shamefully assumed the worst. A sex worker, perhaps. Though I knew I shouldn’t judge from looks alone.

"Excuse me, Sir," she said with a faint smile. “Would you like a tarot reading? I haven’t had a client all night. It’s cheap.”