The wall Firman built around his heart was sturdy, but at fourteen years old, it was far from soundproof. On rainy evenings when the scent of damp earth seeped through the window frames, voices from the past still whispered softly in his ears.

A teenager's stoic front is often nothing more than a fragile shield hiding an open wound.

Firman spent his first full year at Kasih Mulia Orphanage accumulating academic awards. Yet behind the row of certificates displayed beside his desk, a tiny drawer in his wardrobe held a different kind of secret: several clean white envelopes addressed to his old wooden home.

Firman still clung to a sliver of hope—the naive belief of a child who thought time and distance might eventually thaw a frozen heart.

That afternoon after school, Firman sat alone at his desk with a sheet of lined paper before him. His fingers hesitated over his pen for a long time before he finally began to write.

Assalamu’alaikum, Grandma... How are you doing? Is your cough any better? Where have you been living since we moved out?

Grandma, I'm doing well at the orphanage. Mrs. Rahma is wonderful to me—she bought me new books and a desk. I just took first place in my grade this semester. I'm keeping my promise to work hard.

If you see Sister Rizka... please tell her I don't hold any resentment. I just want to know if she's okay. I don't need any money, Grandma. I just want to hear from you both. I miss you.

A stray tear fell, smudging the ink on the edge of the page. Firman quickly wiped it away. He folded the letter neatly, slipped it into an envelope, and wrote the recipient's name: Sumarni / Rizka Amulia, sending it to their old address in hopes that the new landlord or a neighbor might forward it.

Using spare change saved from helping Mrs. Lastri organize the storeroom, Firman walked two kilometers to the local post office. He dropped the envelope into the red mailbox, his hands trembling with hope.

Please... just give me one piece of news, he prayed silently, staring at the iron box as if entrusting it with a piece of his soul.

A month went by. Every time the mail carrier arrived on his orange motorcycle to deliver packages and letters, Firman was the first to run to the front gate.

"Sir... is there anything for Firman Aditya?" he would ask, eyes wide with expectation.

The middle-aged mail carrier would flip through his stack of mail, offering a sympathetic shake of his head. "Nothing today, kiddo. Maybe tomorrow."

"Oh... alright, sir. Thank you," Firman would reply, forcing a polite smile while his chest hollowed out inside.

He didn't give up. Two months later, he wrote a second letter. It carried the same gentle tone, though he added news about being chosen to represent his school in a regional academic competition. He wanted his mother to know that the child she threw away as a mistake was growing into someone worthy of pride. He wanted her—Rizka—to feel a tiny pang of regret, or at least be moved enough to visit just once.

He posted the second letter. The reply? Absolute silence.

Over the next six months, a third, fourth, and fifth letter followed. He even sent one to the market address where his mother's new husband worked, a detail he had overheard years ago. Firman set his pride completely aside. He ignored his own hurt. He simply wanted to know if he still held any place in the memory of the woman who brought him into the world.

The world answered with absolute coldness.

No reply ever came. No phone call reached the orphanage desk. Not a single visit, nor even a small postal order to buy him a new pair of school socks. While other children occasionally received visits from distant relatives during the holidays, Firman could only sit by the dormitory window, gazing out at the motionless green gate.

Rizka had severed the cord completely. She had locked Firman in the deep chest of her past and thrown the key into the sea. To her, he had ceased to exist the moment she walked out of that wooden house.

One afternoon during Firman's second year at the orphanage, the orange motorcycle pulled up outside the fence once more. Firman, who happened to be sweeping the yard, didn't run this time. His steps were slow, his expression measured.

"Young man, are you Firman?" the mail carrier called out. "I have something here for you."

Firman's heart gave a sharp, sudden thud. The ember of hope that had almost died in his chest flared briefly. Did a reply finally come?

He accepted the envelope with trembling hands. But the moment his eyes landed on the bold red stamp across the front, the color drained from his face.

RETURN TO SENDER. ADDRESS NOT FOUND / RECIPIENT MOVED.

It was his fourth letter, returned months after he had posted it. It sat crumpled in his hands, unopened and unread.

Firman stood frozen in the middle of the courtyard. The dim afternoon light washed over his pale face, which had gone as still and cold as marble. He stared down at the envelope, then looked up at the birds soaring freely across the sky.

At that exact moment, something inside him finally snapped.

It was not a break born of grief, but the final collapse of every naive childhood dream he had held onto. No tears came. The aching longing that had haunted his nights dissolved into a quiet, frozen hollow.

He walked toward the trash bin in the corner of the yard. Without hesitation or tears, he tore the envelope straight down the middle and tossed it into the dry waste.

Enough, his inner voice spoke, quiet and firm. This is the last time I beg for affection from people who treat me as dead. From this moment on, you no longer have a place in my life.

Watching from a distance, Mrs. Rahma let out a heavy sigh. She knew Firman's rite of passage into adulthood had just finished in the most unforgiving way possible. He had laid his own childhood hopes to rest to protect whatever remained of his soul.

From that day forward, the light at Firman's study desk stayed on much later into the night, and his eyes bore the quiet determination of a young man ready to build his own future—without needing anyone's pity.