LETTERS & WOUNDS

Alma had grown accustomed to the presence of the family next door without realizing it. She hadn’t become friendly, not really but something in the way she looked at the world had shifted. She was slightly more open now, slightly more willing to accept that the small sounds surrounding her were not enemies.

One morning, as Alma hung her laundry outside, Rani leaned over the fence with a small basket in her hands.

“Kak Alma,” she called, “I made pandan cake. Would you like some?”

Alma was ready to refuse. She wasn’t used to accepting gestures like that. But before she could speak, Rani added with a hopeful smile, “There’s too much anyway. It’d be a waste.”

Bima popped up behind her, shouting, “Auntie Almaaaa, it’s really good! Try it!”

Alma sighed softly and took the basket. “Thank you,” she said, her voice barely audible.

Rani smiled, gentle and unassuming. “You’re welcome.”

Small moments like that began to fill Alma’s days without her noticing.

When rain forced Rani to dry her clothes indoors, Alma lent her a spare clothesline.
When Alma struggled with a gas cylinder, Gilang helped without being asked.
When Bima discovered strange leaves or tiny insects, Alma was always the first person he ran to.

Bit by bit, Alma’s house, once a place she used to hide, started to feel less like a cave and more like a home.

But with change came something else: memory.

The closer Alma grew to her neighbors, the more the past pressed itself back into her life.

There was one afternoon she would never forget.

She was sitting on the porch, something she never used to do, when Bima suddenly appeared, his face glowing with excitement.

“Auntie! Auntie! Come with me!”

“Where?” Alma asked, making no move to stand.

“Come see!”

Bima grabbed her hand without hesitation. Alma flinched in surprise, but she didn’t pull away. She let the boy lead her into the neighboring yard.

Rani was planting purple flowers. Gilang was painting a wooden bench. They worked easily beside one another, moving with the comfort of people long accustomed to sharing small tasks.

Alma watched them, unconsciously holding her breath.

She had once lived like that too.

Not with them. Not in this house. But she had once had someone who sat beside her while planting things, someone who made jokes when the paint turned out uneven, someone who called her name softly when she grew irritable without reason.

That person was gone.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” Rani said, pulling her back to the present.

Alma blinked. “What?”

“The flowers. Bima chose the color.”

Bima nodded proudly. “It’s dinosaur color! Purple dinosaur!”

Gilang laughed. “There’s no such thing as a purple dinosaur.”

“There is!” Bima insisted.

The conversation was ordinary, almost trivial. Yet Alma felt as though she were standing between two worlds, the life she had lost and a new one quietly opening itself to her.

She felt awkward.
Fragile.
And more alive than she wanted to admit.

“If you’d like,” Rani said, “I can give you some seedlings.”

“Maybe later,” Alma replied, managing a faint smile.

They returned to their tasks. Alma walked home with a heart tangled in emotions, memories brushing against her like cold air against bare skin.

That night, she couldn’t sleep.

She sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the envelope in her drawer.

It wasn’t new. She had found it months after that, slipped between old books, as though deliberately hidden yet meant to be found someday.

She knew the handwriting.
She knew who had written it.
She knew it held something important.

Still, she had never dared to open it.

Day after day.
Week after week.
The letter waited.

And Alma stayed silent.

But after that afternoon, after seeing her neighbors so full of life and color, the letter began calling to her again.

Her hands trembled as she picked it up. She stared at it until her thoughts felt heavy.

“Not yet,” she whispered, after a long, quiet battle.

She placed it back inside the drawer.

This time, she didn’t close it all the way.

She left it slightly open.

The cracks were becoming harder to ignore.

A few days later, another small incident disrupted Alma’s fragile balance.

She was buying vegetables at a nearby stall when she noticed Bima sitting by the roadside, clutching his bleeding knee. Rani hovered beside him, frantic, trying to clean the wound with wet tissues.

“Did he fall?” someone asked.

Alma stepped closer, her heart resisting even as her body moved forward.

“It’s just a scrape,” Rani said anxiously. “But he won’t stop crying.”

Bima wasn’t crying loudly. His tears fell quietly, his small face twisted with a pain that went deeper than the injury itself.

Something tightened in Alma’s chest.

Without thinking, she set her groceries down, took out a bottle of water, and gently poured it over Bima’s knee.

Bima winced but didn’t pull away.

“It’s okay,” Alma said softly. “Your mom will clean it again at home.”

Rani looked up at her, eyes shimmering. “Thank you… truly.”

Alma nodded and walked away quickly, before anyone could see her unravel.

Her steps were unsteady.

Memories surged, warm hands cleaning her scraped knee long ago, teasing her gently about her carelessness. The memory felt so real it almost hurt to breathe.

She entered her house and closed the door.

This time, it trembled, not from anger, but from her shaking hands.

She leaned against it and inhaled deeply.

“Why am I like this…”

But she already knew.

She was opening herself up.

And with every opening came old wounds demanding to be seen.

That night, the rain returned.

Not heavy, just a soft drizzle. A sound that once soothed her, now stirring memories she could no longer ignore.

She turned on every light in the house, flooding the rooms with brightness.

She paced, restless.

Finally, she sat on her bed.

Her hands opened the drawer on their own.

The letter was still there.

The cream-colored envelope.
The worn edges.
The handwriting she knew by heart.
The name she once spoke every day.

This time, she didn’t hesitate.

She didn’t cry.
She didn’t panic.
She surrendered.

She knew that if she didn’t open it now, she might never open it at all.

Slowly, she tore the envelope open.

Her hands trembled as she took a breath and began to read.

Time seemed to stop.

I know you won’t like me saying this.

But I know you better than anyone. If you lose me, you will stop. You will sit too long. Stay silent too long. You will try to live in a way that isn’t really living.

Alma’s breath caught in her throat.

Her heart pounded.

She kept reading.

And I don’t want that.

I don’t want you to stop living just because I’m done.

So if you ever find this letter, take it as the one thing I ask of you:

Don’t stay in one place for too long.

Let someone in even if only a little.

Let the world open its door to you, even if you’re afraid.

Alma losed her eyes.

Tears slipped down her face, silent and steady.

In those words, she felt him beside her, speaking in the same gentle voice she remembered.

She reached the final lines.

And if you ever feel like you can’t do it alone, look for someone who can remind you to keep moving forward.

The world will give you that person.

Trust it.

Alma folded the letter carefully.

She cried, not loudly, but deeply.

For loss.
For love.
For the life she thought had ended with him.

But more than that

She cried because she realized the world had already kept its promise.

In a small body.
With a loud voice.
And a red dinosaur toy car.