"A unique woman, often mistaken for being mute because she almost never speaks," Pak Harun muttered to himself. His curiosity suddenly surged.
"She's not an ordinary woman," he muttered again when he saw Humaira arrive that morning. As usual, she was carrying dozens of boxes of food and books.
"Pak Harun?" Hana tapped the shoulder of the man in his sixties.
"Oh, Hana," Pak Harun replied, half-startled. He looked at Hana bashfully.
"Hana's been watching you stare at Bunda this whole time. Ooooh... you're interested, huh?"
"Hush, what does a kid like you know?" Pak Harun retorted, trying to hide his embarrassment.
"Hana isn't a kid, Pak. Bunda trusts Hana to take care of the younger children, manage their schedules, and provide what they need. That's because Hana is already grown up," Hana argued firmly.
Pak Harun only grinned, turning his gaze back toward the woman who owned the shelter home.
"Are you curious?" Hana pressed. Pak Harun gave a quiet laugh.
"Why don't you just introduce yourself, Pak?"
"I... hmm, I don't feel right about it. I'm afraid it might lead to slander, especially since Bunda has a husband."
Hana fell silent. She was only fifteen, but Humaira had once told her about the cracks in her relationship with her husband. Though she had not explained it openly, Hana understood enough to know that the woman was carrying the wounds of her marriage inside her.
"Be Patient, Stay Vigilant, Endure." Hana had once read those words in Bunda's book. They were enough for her to understand that something was being guarded so it could endure.
Bunda had once written that forgiveness was not a shortcut, but a cold and lonely battlefield. When a wife chose to stay, she was not only subduing her heart, but also bearing the unrest that continued to haunt her.
Some time ago, Hana had accidentally seen a man come to see Bunda at the shelter home. The man looked as though he wanted to assert his authority, raising his voice as he demanded that Bunda come home. Hana concluded that he might be Bunda's husband, but she chose not to get involved.
Ever since that man's appearance, Bunda had changed. She was quieter, more often lost in thought, and unable to focus. It was as if memories were rolling through her head like waves that she could stop.
"Bunda, are you all right?" she asked that morning. Humaira shook her head, but a moment later nodded quickly.
Hana felt that Bunda was hiding something. Her intuition as a teenager who was close to Humaira and had come to think of her as a mother urged her to find out. After weighing whether she had the right to know, she finally held out a scrap of paper.
She waited for a while without pressing her, even doubting her own decision, afraid she was intruding too deeply into the problem Bunda was facing. She was only a fifteen-year-old girl who knew little about the twists and turns of adult life.
After waiting a long time, Hana finally saw Humaira begin writing something on the paper. She slowly moved closer, touched Humaira's shoulder, and quietly sounded out each letter she wrote. The words seemed like an outpouring of her heart. Hana did not respond, but she knew that simply holding the woman's hand and rubbing her back gave her the strength to endure.
Bunda wrote about the scent of the house, her partner's tone of voice—even the most trivial corner could ignite the tightness she kept buried inside. No one saw it, but she fought every day.
From each letter Bunda wrote, Hana could feel that the sense of safety she had once possessed had now become something fragile. Trusting again the person who had once cracked her heart, even in the place that should have been most comfortable—her own home—was an exhausting trial. It required layer upon layer of patience.