Jakarta, late afternoon. The dark sky pours down rain as if releasing long-held sorrow. The wet streets glisten under the city lights. On the narrow, slippery pavement, a young man walks hurriedly, occasionally hugging his thin body to keep warm. His tattered uniform is no longer fit for wear, and the shoes he wears have holes in the front.
His name is Vano. He is 17 years old. A homeless child, without family, and without direction. His life is a relentless series of struggles. He is accustomed to sleeping on the steps of a mosque, sometimes under a bridge. He has long since forgotten the meaning of comfort.
Brak! The sudden screech of car brakes echoed in the rain. A black sedan came to an abrupt halt, just inches away from Vano’s body, which had been thrown onto the pavement. People turned their heads, some approached, and others watched from behind their umbrellas.
“Oh my God! Sir, look at that boy!” A woman in a neat uniform got out of the passenger seat. A large umbrella was immediately opened, and she ran toward Vano, who was trying to get up despite his bleeding knee.
“Son, are you okay? You’re hurt! Oh my goodness, look at that, your knee is bleeding...”
Vano shook his head slowly. “I... I’m fine, ma’am. Don’t worry about it...”
From the other side of the car, a tall, muscular man got out. His face was stern, his eyes sharp as he looked at Vano. He approached without saying much.
‘You need medical help,’ he said briefly.
‘I can walk on my own,’ Vano replied, trying to get up. But his body swayed. His vision went dark.
Brugh—
The world went black.
Vano awoke to the pungent smell of antiseptic. The white ceiling lights were blinding. He tried to get up, but a sharp pain shot through his knee.
‘Don't force yourself yet, son. You've just woken up,’ said a soft voice beside him. A woman smiled warmly, holding Vano's hand. Behind her stood the man who had approached him earlier.
‘Where... am I?’
‘The hospital. We brought you here after you fainted. Do you remember what happened, son?’
Vano nodded weakly. ‘I was hit by a car, right?’
‘Almost. Luckily, we managed to brake quickly. My name is Arumi, and this is my husband, Dirga.’
‘Thank you for helping me, Ma'am... Sir...’ Vano bowed his head. ‘But I can't pay...’
‘We don't ask for payment,’ Dirga replied firmly. ‘But we want to ask. Where do you live? Is there anyone we can contact?’
Vano fell silent. For a long time. His eyes were vacant.
‘I... don't have anyone. No home, no family. I sleep at the mosque or the market.’
Mrs. Arumi looked at her husband, then turned back to Vano. ‘Son... where do you go to school?’
‘I don't go to school. I used to, but I stopped because I couldn't afford it.’
Silence filled the room. Only the ticking of the clock could be heard.
Mr. Dirga looked at Vano intently. ‘If you were given the chance to go back to school, would you want to?’
Vano turned his head. ‘What do you mean, sir?’
"We lost our son, Azwar. He was your age. Last year... he died. Suicide, they said, because of bad grades. We... haven't been able to accept it. But everything is already closed."
Vano fell silent. He didn't know what to say.
‘You don't have to replace him,’ said Mrs. Arumi. ‘We just want you to have a future. If you want, you can live with us. We'll send you to a good school.’
‘School... where?’
"Faradighma High School. Azwar’s old school."
Vano’s heart raced. He knew that name. An elite school. A school for the wealthy. A school he had never even imagined he could attend.
‘Why me?’ he asked softly.
Mr. Dirga answered without hesitation, ‘Because you’re different. Your gaze... like someone who won’t waste an opportunity.’
Vano bowed his head for a long time. He wasn't a weak child. He wasn't a beggar for sympathy. But for some reason, that night, in the midst of the unceasing rain, he felt for the first time... he had a place to call home.
‘If I stay with you and Mrs. Dirga, I promise... I won't let you down.’
Mr. Dirga nodded. Mrs. Arumi smiled, her eyes brimming with tears.
Aksara