The frustration crept like poison, slow yet relentless, gnawing away at Wildan’s remaining patience. The house, which usually felt vast, now seemed to shrink; the walls slowly closed in, creating the stifling illusion of an interrogation room. Wherever Wildan walked, his family’s gazes followed. Privacy had vanished. Even when he sat on the edge of his own bedroom mattress, the silhouette of his father standing in the doorway or his mother pacing the central hallway was always caught by the corner of his eye.

They weren't locking him away with padlocks or iron bars. The bedroom doors hung wide open, yet the atmosphere inside the house felt like a suffocating, invisible prison.

"Wildan, come here a minute. Keep Dad company out front," his father called from the living room. The voice was heavy, calm, yet possessed an irresistible pull that forced Wildan’s feet to move against his will.

Wildan let out a heavy sigh. With dragging footsteps, he walked into the living room and sat down on the wooden chair facing his father. On the table, the candle that had burned yesterday remained the exact same size—as though the wick and wax stubbornly refused to melt away.

His father stared straight into Wildan’s eyes. The stern lines across that sun-baked face softened, leaving the gaze of an old man filled with hidden wisdom.

"Wildan, you're twenty-four years old," his father began, folding his hands over the table. "Dad knows I was too harsh raising you. I used to hit you, used to curse at you whenever you came home late empty-handed. Dad was just... terrified you wouldn't survive once I was gone."

Wildan’s throat tightened abruptly. Hearing the words 'once I was gone' slip from his father's mouth sent a sharp, painful spike through the young man's chest. "Dad, why are you suddenly talking like that?"

"Dad just wants you to know, Le," his father continued, ignoring the question. "Being a man isn't easy. Ego must be crushed, responsibility must be elevated. Someday, when you find your own path, never run back to the bottle again. If you have a problem, face it. Look for a solution, not a shortcut. Do you understand?"

The advice flowed so deeply, so sincerely. These were the exact words Wildan had yearned to hear from his father's mouth for years—an acknowledgment and guidance, rather than just crushing economic demands.

On one hand, Wildan's heart shook violently. He felt deeply loved, feeling as though he were finally being recognized as a true son by his father. Yet on the other hand, this barrage of advice felt so urgent, so heavy with the weight of a farewell that it made Wildan's chest feel choked all over again. The stuffiness inside the house peaked in tandem with his father's steady stream of words.

"Dad, please stop," Wildan interrupted, his breath growing shallow. Cold sweat beaded on his temples. "Why do you keep giving advice like someone about to leave on a long journey? I understand, I was wrong all this time. But the way you, Mom, and Rian are acting right now... it's terrifying."

His mother suddenly appeared from the kitchen, carrying a glass of warm water and placing it near Wildan. Her ice-cold hands touched his shoulder once more, as though trying to channel a false sense of calm.

"Your father is right, Wildan. Listen to his advice," his mother urged softly. "We just want to make sure you're ready to walk alone later. You have to become a sturdy pillar, Le."

"Stop it, Mom! Please stop!" Wildan stood up abruptly, his wooden chair scraping loudly against the floor. He stepped backward, staring at his mother and father with ragged breaths.

Rian, his younger brother, emerged from his bedroom and stood in the corner of the room, gazing at Wildan with heavy, tear-filled eyes. "Big Brother... why are you yelling at Mom and Dad again? We just want you to stay here..."

"I'm not yelling, Rian!" Wildan's voice rose, fueled by a towering wave of frustration. "I'm just confused! This house is burning hot, the tiles are warm, the burning smell outside is getting stronger, the wall clocks are dead, the phone is dead, and you guys... you're watching me like I'll vanish the second I step out the door! I feel like I'm suffocating here!"

His father stood up from the sofa as well. Standing tall, he gazed at Wildan no longer with anger, but with a profound, crushing sorrow. The cold radiating from his father's body contrasted sharply with the subtle heat beginning to steam up from the concrete tiles of their living room floor.

"We aren't trapping you, Wildan. We're just protecting you," his father said, his voice shaking heavily as he fought back unshed tears. "Until the time comes... stay here with us. Do not step through that door."

Wildan stared at the three people before him. They stood in a row, blocking his path to the front door. Those sincere yet agonizing smiles returned to their pale faces. Wildan felt loved beyond measure, yet at the same time, this protective affection felt like invisible prison bars slowly draining the remaining oxygen from his chest.