For a seven-year-old boy, the world is usually as simple as flying kites in an open field or fighting over toys with friends. But for Firman, life had always been a puzzle—one where the missing pieces never quite made sense.

That afternoon, the rain had just stopped, leaving behind the rich scent of damp earth and a chilly draft that seeped through the cracks of their wooden walls. Firman lay flat on his stomach on the living room’s creaky floorboards, a cheap drawing book smeared with colorful crayon wax beneath him. In the corner stood a sturdy, dark oak cabinet with foggy glass doors. The door was slightly ajar, revealing a stack of documents that were usually kept locked away.

Innocent curiosity took over. Firman scrambled up, crept over on tiptoe, and pulled out a thick, faded blue document sticking out from the pile. It was wide, covered in neat black gridlines and faint typewriter print.

At the very top, printed in bold capital letters, were the words: FAMILY REGISTRY.

Firman, who was only just learning to read in his first-year primary class, traced his tiny index finger across the words, sounding them out softly under his breath.

"Su... mar... ni. Head of Household," he mumbled. That was his grandmother.

His finger slid down to the row beneath it.

"Riz... ka... A... mu... lia. Relationship: Daughter."

A small smile touched Firman’s lips. That was Sister Rizka—the twenty-two-year-old woman who shared their roof. She was pretty and always dressed neatly whenever she left for work, but she always looked at him with cold, distant eyes. Firman was used to calling her 'Sister Rizka' because ever since he could talk, his grandmother had strictly instructed him to do so.

But when his finger drifted to the third line, his brow furrowed deeply.

"Fir... man... Ad... it... ya. Relationship..." Firman spelled out the word under the status column. "...S-O-N."

Son?

Firman blinked hard, staring back and forth between his grandmother’s row and his own. On this official document, his status was identical to Sister Rizka’s. They were both listed as the "Children" of Grandmother Sumarni.

If he was her child, and Sister Rizka was also her child... didn't that make them brother and sister? That meant Sister Rizka was his older sister, not an aunt or a distant relative living with them.

"But... why?" Firman whispered, entirely lost.

His young mind tried to process a logical reality far too complex for his age. Ever since he could remember, his classmates at school had mothers who walked them to the gates, hugged them when they cried, and fed them dinner. Firman had none of that. He only had his frail grandmother, whose face was lined with deep wrinkles and who suffered from a persistent, raspy cough.

Where was his mother, then? Why did this paper list him as the younger brother of a woman he had always treated like a distant relative staying in their home?

CREAK.

The sudden sound of footsteps on the outer wooden deck startled Firman. His heart slammed against his ribs. Panicking, he tried to shove the blue paper back into the cabinet, but his trembling hands bent the edge, creating a sharp, loud rustle.

"Firman! What are you doing in front of that cabinet?!"

The sharp screech made him jump so hard the paper slipped from his hands, fluttering to the floor. Standing in the bedroom doorway was Rizka. She had just returned from her job doing laundry at the housing complex across the street. Her face was pale with fatigue, and her damp hair was loosely tied back from the lingering drizzle.

The moment her eyes landed on the blue document lying at Firman's feet, all color drained from her face. Her eyes widened in a volatile mixture of shock and explosive fury.

"Who told you to touch the things in there?!" Rizka snapped, taking long strides across the room and snatching the document off the floor.

"I... I'm sorry, Sis... I just wanted to see..." Firman squeaked in terror, backing away until his small back hit the cabinet doors. He clutched the hem of his faded shirt tightly.

Rizka didn't listen. With trembling hands, she refolded the document, shoved it deep into the cabinet, and slammed the door shut, locking it with a loud click. She immediately shoved the brass key deep into her pocket.

She turned back to face him. Her gaze burned with raw hatred, guilt, and a deep, festering pain that made Firman feel, as he so often did, like a walking, breathing mistake.

"Don't you ever dare open this cabinet again, Firman! Do you hear me?!" Her voice trembled, strained with overflowing emotion.

"I was just confused, Sis..." Tears welled up in the boy's eyes, fear and confusion knotting inside his chest. "On that paper... why is my name written as Grandma's child? Why am I listed as your little brother? My friends at school say I don't have a mother. But if you're Grandma's daughter, then... who is my birth mother?"

SLAP!

A hard crack echoed through the quiet living room as Rizka’s palm struck his left cheek.

Firman stumbled sideways, his cheek instantly burning with a stinging heat. Yet the physical pain was nothing compared to the shock that crashed over him. This was the first time Rizka had ever laid a hand on him. Usually, she just ignored him or spat harsh words his way.

"Shut up! Stop asking questions!" Rizka breathed heavily, her fists clenched so tightly her knuckles turned white. "You're just a kid who should be grateful there's food on your plate in this house! Don't you ever bring up the word 'mother' in front of me again!"

Just as Firman broke into frightened sobs, the front door swung open. Grandmother Sumarni stepped inside carrying a small plastic bag of cooked vegetables. Taking in the sight of Firman weeping while clutching his red cheek and Rizka standing over him, gasping for air, the old woman instantly understood what had happened.

"Rizka! What did you do to this child?!" Grandmother cried out, dropping the groceries and rushing forward to gather Firman into her arms.

"He was prying, Mother! He opened the cabinet and read the registry!" Rizka shouted back in frustration, tears streaming down her own cheeks now. "I'm sick of it! I'm sick of looking at him every single day and being reminded of the stupidest mistake of my life! Why didn't you just throw him away back then?!"

Screaming those cruel words, Rizka turned on her heel, ran into her room, and slammed the door so hard the wooden walls shook to their foundation.

Silence fell over the living room, broken only by the sound of Firman’s muffled sobs against his grandmother’s chest.

"Grandma..." Firman whimpered between hiccups, looking up at the weathered, wrinkled face above him. "Does Sister Rizka hate me that much? Am I a bad boy?"

Grandmother Sumarni didn't answer. She simply tightened her embrace around his frail frame, her own tears falling quietly and soaking into Firman's dark hair. Inwardly, she wept for her grandson’s cruel fate—a child who, to satisfy local laws and cover up a family shame, had been legally rewritten as her own son.

Poor little Firman. On a sheet of official paper, he had a recognized status. But inside that house, he was nothing more than an unwanted ghost—a constant reminder of a secret born from a broken past. And that night, for the very first time, he realized that the name printed on the legal record was nothing more than a carefully guarded lie.