The towering black iron gates opened slowly, letting out a familiar creak. A year ago, I left this place being dragged by force, screaming hysterically, behind locked car doors. Today, I return in silence.
The black SUV that picked me up from Lembang rolled into the courtyard of the Richards family mansion in Menteng. There was no grand welcome. No "Welcome Home" banners. The house stood as majestic as ever, its white pillars gleaming under Jakarta's dusty, orange afternoon sun. But to me, this house no longer looked like a palace. It felt more like a museum—beautiful, but lifeless.
"We're here, Miss," Pak Tejo's voice broke my reverie. He looked at me through the rearview mirror with cautious eyes, as if he was afraid I’d explode or throw another tantrum.
"Thank you, Pak," I replied so
