That morning, a thin, icy mist hung low over the city. Remnants of last night’s downpour pooled in the potholed streets, splashing against the tires of an old, battered transit van. Inside the rattling vehicle, Firman sat in stony silence by the window. He had turned thirteen just a few weeks prior, but there had been no celebration, no cake, not even a simple "happy birthday."

Beside him sat Grandmother Sumarni, clutching a worn cloth bag filled with a few of Firman’s best shirts and their essential documents—including the faded blue Family Registry that had ignited every ounce of pain in his young life.

Grandmother hadn't stopped coughing the entire journey. Her wrinkled hand held a white handkerchief now spotted with faint streaks of blood. Firman saw it, but every time he tried to ask, she turned her head away and squeezed his fingers tightly, as if pouring whatever strength she had left directly into him.

The transit van ground to a halt in front of a faded green iron gate with peeling paint. Mounted above the archway was a wooden sign: Kasih Mulia Orphanage.

At the sight of the words, Firman’s heart hammered against his ribs. He turned to his grandmother, his eyes wide with sudden terror.

"Grandma... why are we here?" Firman whispered. His voice, cracking with the first stages of puberty, trembled violently.

Grandmother Sumarni didn't answer right away. She shuffled out of the van with heavy, unsteady steps and guided Firman through the iron gate. Across the sprawling courtyard, several young children chased a plastic ball, their lighthearted laughter echoing in the air. But to Firman, the entire place felt suffocating and terrifyingly foreign.

They were shown into a modest parlor that smelled of eucalyptus oil and aged paper. Moments later, a middle-aged woman dressed neatly in modest attire entered with a gentle, serene smile. This was Mrs. Rahma, the director of the orphanage.

"Please sit, Mrs. Sumarni. So... is this the boy you mentioned over the phone?" Mrs. Rahma asked softly, her eyes filled with deep empathy as she looked at Firman.

Grandmother Sumarni gave a frail nod. Tears she had held back all morning broke free, tracing the deep wrinkles of her weathered face. With trembling hands, she pulled the blue Family Registry from her bag and laid it on the table.

"Yes, Mrs. Rahma. This is Firman... my son," Grandmother Sumarni whispered, maintaining the false record to protect what remained of her family’s dignity, though her heart screamed in agony. "My health is failing me, ma'am. We’ve been evicted from our rental. I... I can no longer afford to feed him, let alone send him to school. I can't leave Firman to rot on the streets if God takes my life tomorrow..."

Hearing those words of absolute surrender, Firman felt his entire world crumble for the second time. He dropped to his knees in front of his grandmother, clutching the fabric of her traditional sarong.

"Grandma! I don't want to stay here!" Firman sobbed, his stoic front shattering completely. "I don't care about school, Grandma! I can earn money! I can haul sacks at the market! I can scavenge for scrap! Just please let me stay with you! Don't throw me away..."

His agonizing wails echoed through the quiet room. Watching the heartbreaking scene, Mrs. Rahma had to look away, dabbing at her own brimming eyes.

Grandmother Sumarni wept openly, cupping Firman’s hollow cheeks with her cold, shaking hands. She pulled the thirteen-year-old boy into an embrace so tight it felt like a final farewell.

"Listen to me, Firman... Listen to me, child," Grandma whimpered between ragged breaths. "I am not throwing you away. I love you so much. But I am powerless now. This old body is finished, Firman. If you stay with me, you will have no future. Here... Mrs. Rahma is a good person. You’ll have regular meals. You can continue your education..."

"But you’re all I have, Grandma!" Firman shrieked hysterically. "My mother threw me away because she saw me as a curse! Now... now are you abandoning me too?!"

The innocent yet devastating question cut through Grandmother Sumarni like a blade. She knew the deep psychological scar left by Rizka’s rejection had never healed, and now she was forced to carve a new one for his own survival.

"I'm so sorry, Firman... Forgive your useless grandmother..." she wept bitterly, pressing kiss after kiss to his forehead, her tears washing over his cheeks.

Slowly, she forced herself to break the embrace. She stood up on sheer willpower, turning her tear-streaked face toward Mrs. Rahma. "Mrs. Rahma... I am leaving Firman in your care. He is a good boy, very obedient. Please... guide him so he can become someone successful."

"Don't worry, Mrs. Sumarni. Firman will be safe here. We will take good care of him," Mrs. Rahma replied, her voice thick with emotion.

Grandmother Sumarni turned and walked toward the exit without daring to look back. She knew that if she caught one last glimpse of Firman’s tear-stained face, her resolve would shatter, and she would drag him back to starve with her on the streets.

"Grandmaaaa! Don't go! Please!"

Firman lunged forward to chase her, but Mrs. Rahma’s arms locked tightly around his chest from behind. Firman thrashed in her grip, kicking at the air and reaching out toward the doorway. He watched his grandmother's frail, hunched back wobble through the green iron gate until her silhouette was swallowed entirely by the crowded main road.

In an instant, all strength drained from his body. He collapsed onto the floor in Mrs. Rahma’s arms, sobbing uncontrollably until his throat was raw and his voice gave out.

At thirteen years old, Firman officially became an orphan. His small, warm home with Grandma was replaced by a vast dormitory lined with bunk beds. That night, lying beneath the unfamiliar ceiling of the orphanage, Firman stared into the dark. The overwhelming grief inside him slowly crystallized into a thick, impenetrable wall around his heart.

He knew that from this day forward, he was truly alone in the world. No mother, no grandmother. All that remained was himself—and a quiet, burning resolve to survive.