Dayat didn't know when he had finally succumbed to exhaustion. All he knew was that he was now standing in a room he recognized all too well.
The walls were a dingy, off-white, marred by dark patches near the ceiling—remnants of rain leaks that had never been repaired. A wall-mounted fan whirred sluggishly above the desk, emitting a faint, rhythmic creak with every rotation—a sound he used to ignore, but now heard with haunting clarity. The stale aroma of instant noodles and coffee hung in the air, clinging to the sheets, the pillows, and the jacket draped over the back of the door. It was a scent he had once loathed because it tasted like loneliness. But now? Now, it smelled like home.
It was his boarding house room in Jakarta.
