The distinctive scent of antiseptic and the chill in the air filled the third-floor corridor of Rumah Sakit Citra Harapan. The steady rhythm of footsteps broke through the silence of the deepening night.
Rayhan stood at the end of the hallway, his back against the lonely cream-colored wall. He had left his formal jacket in the car, leaving him in a slightly wrinkled white shirt with the top buttons undone. His eyes remained fixed on a frosted glass door marked High Care Unit.
After Clara's taxi disappeared into the evening drizzle, Rayhan hadn't gone home. He had sent one of his trusted men to find the hospital where Clara's mother was being treated—information he obtained with ease thanks to his extensive business connections.
Yet now, standing only a few dozen yards from the room, his legs felt as heavy as lead.
Through the partially open glass door, Rayhan saw a woman he knew all too well. Clara sat on a cold plastic chair beside the hospital bed. She was still wearing her work clothes, though several strands of her neatly pinned hair had begun to come loose around her neck.
She was gently holding her mother's thin, pale hand, which was connected to various tubes monitoring her heartbeat. Clara's face radiated utter exhaustion, yet her gaze toward her mother was so warm—a warmth Rayhan had never received from those eyes again.
A dull pain throbbed in Rayhan's chest. How much suffering had those slender shoulders carried over the past three years without the slightest help from him?
Rayhan drew a deep breath, trying to gather what little courage he had left. He stepped closer, stopping right at the threshold of the slightly open door.
Knock! Knock!
The soft sound made Clara turn her head. The warm light in her eyes vanished at once, replaced by an utterly flat calm when she saw who was standing there.
“Mr. Rayhan?” Clara's voice was barely audible, almost a whisper as she tried to preserve the room's quiet.
Clara carefully placed her mother's hand back on top of the blanket. She rose from her chair, straightened her blazer, and stepped into the hallway to meet Rayhan.
The glass door closed behind them.
“How did you find this place?” Clara asked. Her voice was flat, without a hint of anger, yet it carried an unmistakably firm edge.
Rayhan stared at Clara's exhausted face from up close. There were faint dark circles beneath her eyes. “I—I just wanted to know how your mother was doing, Clara.”
Clara curved her lips into a faint, formal smile. “My mother's condition is stable. Thank you for your concern, Mr. Rayhan.”
“Clara, please,” Rayhan rasped, cutting her off. He closed the distance by half a step, no longer able to contain the storm of emotion in his chest. “This hospital has very limited facilities. I can transfer your mother to the best hospital overseas tomorrow morning. I'll cover all the—”
“No need,” Clara cut in gently, but her words struck the night air like a sharp sword. “The facilities here are more than adequate for my mother.”
“But Clara, I want to help!” Rayhan's voice rose slightly, reflecting the frustration and desperation he could no longer hide. “I'm your husband—”
“Ex-husband,” Clara corrected plainly, fixing his sentence without the slightest hesitation.
Rayhan froze. The word slipped so lightly from Clara's lips, yet its effect suddenly made it hard for him to breathe.
“Everything concerning my family is my personal responsibility,” Clara continued calmly, her eyes meeting Rayhan's without warmth. “I work hard at Nexus Advisory Group solely to pay for my mother's treatment with money I earn through my own efforts. I don't need financial assistance or pity from outsiders. Especially not from you.”
Rayhan's ego felt as though it had been savagely whipped. “I'm not an outsider, Clara! I just want to make up for my mistakes in the past—”
“That past is dead, Mr. Rayhan,” Clara cut in again. Her professional smile returned to her lips—the cold smile Rayhan hated most now. “There's nothing to make up for because I no longer remember it. I suggest you go home. It's almost midnight, and visiting hours are over.”
Clara bowed slightly—a formal gesture of respect that became an impenetrable distance between them.
“Excuse me. I need to get back to my mother.”
Clara turned away, pushed open the glass door, and stepped back into the care room without looking back. The door shut firmly, locking Rayhan outside in the cold silence of the corridor.
Rayhan stood speechless in front of the glass door.
Through the hazy glass, he watched Clara sit down beside her mother's bed again, completely ignoring his presence as though he were nothing more than an intangible shadow.
Rayhan pressed his palm against the door's cold glass. For the first time in the life of Rayhan Pratama, warm tears gathered at the corners of his eyes and slid down his rigid cheeks.
Once, the door to their home had always stood wide open to welcome him back, no matter how late he returned. But tonight, Rayhan finally realized the most painful truth of all: the door to Clara's heart had been locked from the inside, and he no longer had the key.