.Kalimba

For a moment, I felt myself sinking—lost in the melody and the scene unfolding before me. Time and place slipped away from my grasp—until suddenly, everything halted. The kalimba's tune fell silent, pulling me back to reality.

"Eh? Why are you crying, sir?"

That gentle voice filled the void. I turned, slowly. She looked at me with soft concern etched on her face.

Strangely, I hadn't noticed the tears forming in my eyes. I had always believed I could hold them back, as I usually did.

A small smile, a glance toward the sky—those had always been my shields. But now, those defenses had crumbled. Perhaps these tears had waited too long to surface. Now they refused to be ignored.

"Did I play the melody wrong? Did it remind you of something painful, sir?"

Her questions came gently, tinged with worry. Her gaze held an almost unreasonable guilt—for something she clearly never intended.

And that made me even quieter, feeling even weaker, 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.

"I-It's okay. Your kalimba playing is beautiful. I... I was just very touched."

I wiped away the warm streaks on my cheeks, tasting salt at the corners of my lips.

I forced a smile, though it strained every muscle in my face. It wasn’t just for her. I needed to believe it myself. That everything was fine. Even when something inside me was quietly collapsing.

After a while, when the atmosphere had calmed down a bit and my tears were no longer flowing as before. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my wallet, and took another fifty-thousand rupiah. I offered it to her.

She tilted her head, brows rising in confusion. She didn’t take it immediately. Her eyes searched mine.

"But sir, you already gave me money earlier... so what's this money for?" she asked. Her voice remained soft, purely curious. Not denying, not demanding.

I shrugged slightly and nodded slowly, then replied, "Appreciation. Consider it a bonus."

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.

Perhaps, in her daily life as a street musician playing the kalimba—few people truly paid attention to her playing, let alone shed tears, gave money twice, and called it touching.

"If you'd like, sir," she offered with a hint of cheerful eagerness, "I can play other songs that fit the scene there, you know. 'Simfony Hitam?' 'Sandaran Hati?' 'Tercipta Untukku?' I can play those... I can even try other songs if you want." Her tone carried a sweet innocence.

"N-No, thank you..." I replied softly, still slightly choked by emotions that hadn't quite subsided. "I... I just want to move on. Go somewhere else."

I slowly pulled away. Without looking back, I prepared to continue my journey—heading north along the street.

But before my first step, her fingers wrapped gently around my wrist.

I paused, turning slowly.

She was holding me back—with a look in her eyes that pierced right through me.

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

It was the first time I fully saw her face—not just in passing, but with intention. And in that moment, I caught the bitter expression welling up on her face.

There was something there... a rare kind of sincerity, which made me, if only for a fleeting moment, hesitate to continue my steps.

I think, she was quite beautiful. But it wasn't just that. Her facial expression clearly showed that the pity she displayed was not feigned. Not merely an expression my colleagues often used to fish for cheap sympathy.

"It's okay, sir. If you have a problem, just tell me... I'll listen."

Without hesitation, she took my other hand, joining them in her grasp. Her palms were warm, her gesture real.

That action was quite surprising. I mean, we were strangers. No names had been exchanged. Yet she didn’t hesitate.

I briefly looked down. Afraid to meet her gaze any longer, afraid her eyes were too deep and capable of digging up the wounds I had so painstakingly buried.

Afraid that the tears I had fought so hard to hold back would fall again, would again show how fragile I was.

I was afraid... that all the hopes I had deliberately extinguished—would reignite just because of a glance from someone I had just met.

I took a long, deep breath, trying to calm the slight tremor rising in my chest. Then slowly, with all the courage I could gather in that single breath, I lifted my face.

"Thank you for your kindness," I said as steadily as I could. "But really, I’m okay. Maybe I’m just tired. I just need some rest."

After hearing my words, I caught a fleeting glimpse of a small change in her expression. For some reason, her grip on my hand suddenly felt a little looser. But she didn't let go completely, only giving enough room for my hand to slowly withdraw.

She then shifted her body slightly, reaching for the worn bag hanging on her back. She took out a small notebook from inside, then tore out one of its pages. She wrote something on that slip of paper.

"Here’s my number," she said, handing me the note. "If you ever need anything, call me, okay?" Her tone remained gentle, but this time there was a slight emphasis.

She left no room for refusal. Even as I just stood there, staring at the slip of paper, her hand already moved, taking my fingers and placing the paper there—then, without hesitation, she closed my fingers one by one, forcing me to grip it tightly.

Finally, I could continue my journey north. My steps once again gently trod the streets now slowly being swallowed by silence, carrying me away from the brief meeting place.

From a distance, I looked back one last time. She was still there, waving at me—a slow wave that wasn't just a goodbye, but perhaps a kind of... prayer for me to be okay.

As I walked, my mind became busy again with the voices I usually ignored. And somehow, I couldn't help but ask myself, "What if..." What if that girl had appeared earlier? Sooner? Perhaps, just perhaps, I could have made a different decision.

But now, it felt like everything was already too late. Too much had broken, and there was nothing left to fix. Everything was too damaged... and rusted.

Now I had reached three-quarters of the entire journey I'd embarked on that night. My legs began to feel heavy, and my steps slowed without me realizing it.

Thinking back, my earlier interaction with that girl had drained quite a lot from me.

Finally, I decided to stop for a moment. On the side of the road, on an old bench, I let my body sink momentarily, as if to shed an invisible burden.

With my head down, I reached into my pocket and took out my phone. My fingers automatically pressed the screen, opening the messaging app with a small hope... perhaps there was one or two new messages. Maybe from an old friend, an unexpected acquaintance, or—if I was lucky—someone who cared and asked, "Where are you?"

But in reality, there was nothing...

And amidst all of that, for some reason, my fingers stopped on a message I should have deleted long ago. It was a message from my boss.

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

How crude. It seemed that was truly how he viewed my work. For him, being an office boy was a low caste, a slave's job only fit for orders and insults.

But never mind. Let it be. Hopefully by tomorrow morning, his anger would have subsided. Or... perhaps he would even be happy. Happy to see that I—this human he deemed useless—had left his life.

Feeling that my break was sufficient and there was nothing else I could do in this place, I sighed deeply and prepared to start walking again.

But after only a few steps, suddenly a hand appeared from behind and grabbed my wrist.

For a moment, I felt annoyed—a small surge of anger, because in my mind I thought it was her—the kalimba girl.

But it wasn't her. The figure now standing before me was another woman—a little older than me.

From her appearance, honestly, my mind briefly cast a negative judgment. Maybe she was a sex worker, I spontaneously thought, even though I knew I shouldn't judge someone just by how they dressed.

"Excuse me, Sir," she said with a faint smile. "Would you... like a tarot reading? I haven't gotten any clients at all since earlier. It's cheap, really."