Outside the window, the sky looked gloomy and pitch dark, just like Nadia's heart at this moment. The heavy rain drummed against the glass with a sharp rhythm that pierced the ears. Nadia sat on a worn wooden chair in the small dining room, hugging her knees. Her eyes stared blankly at the calendar on the wall. The red circle on that date was almost faded, though she knew exactly what it meant: three years since her mother had passed away.
"Why today, Mom? Why did your leaving have to be on my birthday?" she whispered, her voice almost drowned by the rain.
There was no other sound in the house except for the ticking clock and the endless rain. The dining table before her was empty — no cake, no candles, no birthday wishes. Only a plate with remnants of her father's breakfast and scattered crumbs.
Nadia took a deep breath, trying to hold back her tears. She felt angry, but more than that, she felt deeply hurt.
'Dad must have forgotten,' she thought, even though she knew it wasn't anything new. Her father always forgot everything related to her — birthdays, school events, or even just asking how her day had been.
Since her mother died, her father had seemed like a stranger. Pak Arman, Nadia's father, spent more time at the workshop than at home, lost among old machines that, to Nadia, seemed more interesting to him than his own daughter.
"Dad cares more about those bolts than me," she muttered bitterly.
Just as she thought this, the front door creaked open. Nadia looked up, hoping her father would come in with a cake or a small gift — maybe a little surprise. But all she saw was a middle-aged man with an oil-stained shirt hanging his wet jacket by the door.
"Have you eaten?" Pak Arman asked shortly, without looking at Nadia.
Nadia didn't answer, remaining silent, letting the silence speak for her. Pak Arman didn't wait for a reply and moved on to the kitchen to get a glass of water, then sat in a chair that didn't face Nadia at all.
Minutes passed in silence, and Nadia felt her anger start to boil. She wanted to scream and ask why her father never cared about her, but her voice caught in her throat. She couldn't express it all and instead stood up, pushing her chair loudly across the floor.
"If you don't care, then I don't need to be here!" she shouted, half yelling before running out and slamming the door behind her.
Pak Arman just stared at the trembling door, making no effort to stop her. He sighed heavily, bowed his head, and rubbed his temples.
"Sorry, child," he muttered, even though he knew Nadia was too far away to hear.
The rain that had fallen relentlessly since yesterday began to ease, leaving puddles on the muddy streets. In a small workshop on the corner, Pak Arman was still crouched beneath the hood of an old car, his rough and scarred hands moving skillfully. The dim glow of a neon lamp above cast shadows that shifted with his movements.
He took a deep breath; his chest felt tight. In recent months, the pain had come more often — like an uninvited guest. But he knew he couldn't stop. Every hour in this workshop was his effort to pay off the debts left behind by his wife.
"Arman, when are you going home? It's almost night," Budi, his friend, broke the silence.
Pak Arman glanced briefly, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Soon, Bud. I just have to finish this."
Budi frowned, stepping closer. "You're so stubborn. I know you work hard for Nadia, but if you don't take care of yourself, your daughter might lose you too."
Pak Arman gave a faint smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. He didn't answer and went back to the machine in front of him.
"I promised my late wife, Bud. I'll pay off all the debts. I'll make sure Nadia doesn't lose this house."
Budi looked doubtful but finally gave in. "Be careful, Man. Don't hurt yourself."
Pak Arman just nodded. After Budi left, he sat back on a wooden chair, closing his eyes for a moment.
That night, the rain returned, pouring over the land. Pak Arman, ready to go home, rode his motorcycle carefully, his eyes fixed on the slippery road. The dim streetlights offered little help in the darkness. He sighed heavily, feeling exhausted.
Passing a small intersection, he noticed a young man standing under a flickering streetlight. Pak Arman slowed down. The young man was soaking wet, head bowed, hugging himself against the cold. No bag, no belongings near him.
Pak Arman stopped a few meters away. "Hey, what are you doing out here so late?" His voice was slightly harsh, mixed with suspicion.
The young man slowly looked up. His pale face, wet hair clinging to his forehead, and his eyes stopped Pak Arman in his tracks. Somehow, those eyes felt warm, even though he was shivering.
"I... don't know where to go," the young man answered softly, his voice trembling.
Pak Arman frowned. He wanted to just leave and ignore him, but his heart felt heavy. The increasing rain made the young man look so fragile.
"Get on. You can't stay here."
The young man hesitated but finally nodded. Slowly, he climbed onto the back of Pak Arman's motorcycle.
"What's your name?" Pak Arman asked, trying to fill the silence.
"Serafim," the young man answered briefly.
Pak Arman parked his motorcycle in front of his small house. Light from the window showed Nadia was still awake. When he opened the door, Nadia immediately appeared from the living room, looking confused.
"Who is that, Dad?" she asked, glancing at Serafim, standing there dripping wet.
Pak Arman took off his helmet and sighed. "His name is Serafim. I met him on the road. He has nowhere to go."
Nadia crossed her arms. "So Dad brings a stranger home? We don't even know who he is!"
"Nad, he just needs a place to stay for the night. Look, he's freezing," Pak Arman said, his voice firm.
Serafim stepped inside, bowing slightly as a sign of respect. "Thank you for letting me stay. I won't be a burden."
Nadia stared sharply but said nothing. She went to her room, slamming the door loudly.
Pak Arman looked at Serafim awkwardly. "Sorry about that. Nadia... sometimes she's like that."
Serafim just smiled faintly. "It's understandable."
Serafim woke up before sunrise. When Pak Arman came out of his room, he was surprised to see the small yard — usually scattered with dry leaves — now swept neatly.
"You didn't have to go to all this trouble, Serafim," Pak Arman said while tying his shoes.
"This is my way of saying thank you," Serafim answered calmly, not stopping his work.
Pak Arman smiled slightly. He felt there was something different about this young man.
***