Friday morning arrived quietly.
No drama. No cinematic weather. Just Jakarta doing what Jakarta always did — waking up loud and golden and entirely without regard for the significance of anyone's personal timeline.
Hana lay in bed for seven minutes after her alarm went off, staring at the ceiling with the particular stillness of someone who had slept adequately and was now using consciousness as a delay tactic. The dress she had chosen the night before hung on the wardrobe door where she had left it — simple, warm, not navy — and looked back at her with a patience she found mildly accusatory.
She got up. Made coffee. Stood at the window.
The city below was already in full motion. Motorbikes threading between buses. Street vendors setting up with the efficient optimism of people who had
