Short Story by Leni Marlina
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Every night, in a small terminal nearly erased from memory, one light remained lit: the lamp above Pak Maman’s Chicken Noodle of Hope cart. It wasn’t that he did not long for rest. He simply feared that if he closed his cart tonight, Riko—his son—might return while he was gone. Five years is not a short span. Five years that slowly tore his heart into shreds.
A light drizzle fell, dampening the rusted roof of the terminal. The smell of wet earth mingled with the warm aroma of broth from the old cart—the scent that once made Riko hurry home from school.
Pak Maman stirred the soup slowly. His hands trembled, not from the cold, but from longing piled up without boundaries.
Since the day Riko left after their quarrel, Pak Maman had never raised his voice again. The only loud sound now was the echo of regret gnawing inside him each night:
“If only I had been a little more patient…”
He stared at the small chair in front of his cart—the chair where Riko once sat, stirring the noodles without permission. Now it sat soaked, dust-filled, and heavy with tormenting memories.
When the rain began to lighten, hurried steps echoed from the far end of the terminal. A young man appeared—soaked through, pale, his thin body trembling like a leaf stripped of season.
“Sir… I’m sorry… may I… eat? I… I don’t have money… .”
The voice carried the fragile tone of someone long denied kindness. Without a single question, Pak Maman reignited the stove.
“Sit down, son. Money can wait. Your stomach can’t.”
The young man sat, eyes fixed on the floor, avoiding the cart. Slowly, he wiped the traces of life’s bruises from his face.
What’s your name?” Pak Maman asked softly.
“Fajar,” he whispered—his voice hoarse, as if even the name felt foreign to him now.
“And your father? What does he do?”
Fajar froze.
“Father?”
A faint, bitter laugh escaped him—hollow, joyless.
“I don’t even know if my father wants to see me anymore. I’ve changed so much, sir… I’m nobody now.”
Pak Maman looked at him for a long moment, his heart screaming silently.
Riko… is this what you are now? Hungry? Broken? Afraid to come home?
With trembling hands, he placed a bowl of noodles before Fajar.
“Every child deserves to come home,” he said quietly. “Even those who feel unworthy.”
Tears dropped into Fajar’s bowl. As he ate, his eyes caught a small sign on the cart:
“For Riko, the child his father always waits for.”
He blinked slowly.
“Riko…? Who is he, sir?”
“ My son,” Pak Maman answered softly. What is his father’s name?”
“Maman,” he replied.
Silence fell over the cart. The steam no longer felt warm. The rain seemed to pound harder. Fajar stared at the man’s worn face, its tired lines and weary eyes. Someone from his memory once had those same eyes—stronger, fiercer.
“My father…” he whispered, “his name is Maman too.”
The bowl nearly slipped from the old man’s grasp. His heartbeat thudded violently.
“Fajar,” he whispered, “may I see your face… more closely?”
Fajar lifted his head. Those eyes—the curve of the brows—the way he held back tears—they were fragments of memories carved into the old man’s heart. And beneath the exhaustion, the pallor, the bruises… were the eyes he knew too well. Eyes that once begged for pocket change. Eyes that cried after falling off a bicycle. Riko’s eyes.
Riko…?” His voice cracked, collapsing with the rain.
Fajar startled, dropping the bowl, tears breaking free.
“Dad… I’m sorry… I was afraid to come home… I thought you wouldn’t recognize me…”
Pak Maman pulled him tightly into an embrace—embracing a soul he thought gone forever.
“My child… I’ve changed too. That’s why you didn’t recognize me. But not once… not for a single second… did I stop waiting.”
Rain fell like the first monsoon after a long drought. The old terminal became the warmest home on earth.
Yet as they held each other, a medical officer rushed in, rain-soaked folder in hand.
“Pak Maman?”
He loosened his embrace, eyes swollen.
“There’s news… about Riko.”
Fajar lowered his head, awaiting a verdict.
“We found Riko this morning,” the officer said.
Pak Maman grasped Fajar’s hand tightly.
“How is my son? He’s okay, isn’t he?”
Tears slipped down the officer’s face—a rare sight.
“I’m sorry, sir… . Riko was found along the riverbank. He passed away… two days ago. He is now at the hospital awaiting an autopsy.”
The world collapsed silently in Pak Maman’s eyes. The bowls vanished. The terminal lamp dimmed like mourning candles. Rain poured harder—as if the sky itself grieved.
“No… Riko just came home… He’s here… with me…”.He turned to Fajar, clutching the last shred of hope.
Fajar bit his lip until blood tasted like iron.
“Sir… I’m… not Riko.” His voice trembled.
“I’m just a lost boy… who failed to go home… who lost his father… and I wished—wished you were mine… .”
Pak Maman sobbed like a child. Not only for Riko’s death, but for something heavier:
he had just loved a child who wasn’t his, at the very moment he learned his own son was gone forever.
Yet he pulled Fajar into another embrace—tighter, deeper, wounded.
“Son… if I can no longer hold my Riko… let me hold you… for tonight… you’ve saved a father who had nothing left.”
And in that rain-drenched terminal, as lightning struck and the “Chicken Noodle of Hope” sign faded into darkness, two broken souls found the only thing still capable of saving them: becoming a home for each other when the home they longed for would never return.
The Indonesian version of the short story above is available in the following official link:
