The first night at the Kasih Mulia Orphanage felt like the longest night of Firman's life.

He lay flat on his back atop a thin foam mattress covered in a faded blue striped sheet. The room was a large dormitory housing nearly ten boys his age. To his left and right, the soft sound of light snoring and rhythmic breathing echoed from the other children already fast asleep. Yet Firman's eyes remained wide open, staring blankly at the dull concrete ceiling.

The atmosphere of the orphanage was completely foreign: the pungent stench of disinfectant, the scent of rotting wood from the shared wardrobes, and the suffocating silence of a night without Grandma's familiar cough to keep him company.

A single tear slipped from the corner of his eye, tracing down his temple and soaking into the firm pillow beneath him. Firman clutched the chest of his shirt. That agonizing feeling of abandonment returned, swelling like a massive wave ready to drag him under.

Mother threw me away because I am a stain. Grandma left me because I am a burden.

Those dark thoughts whispered relentlessly in his ears. At just thirteen years old, a profound sense of isolation gripped his soul. He felt like a withered leaf torn from its branch, blown away by the wind to parts unknown, with no one in the world caring where he might land.

Yet amid that deep despair, a flicker of clarity sparked in Firman's mind. He remembered the serene face of Mrs. Rahma, and he recalled Grandma's tears wetting his forehead earlier that afternoon. Grandma had let him go so he could eat—so he could go to school.

If I keep crying and pitying myself, I'll just be a pathetic child, Firman thought, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. I must not become a nuisance to Mrs. Rahma. I must not make Grandma regret placing me here. I have to be strong. I have to make myself useful.

That night, on the cold dormitory bed, Firman made a solemn vow to himself—an anchor that would hold his life steady for years to come: He would never be a burden to anyone ever again.

RINGGGGG!

The sharp clang of an iron bell shattered the early morning quiet at precisely four-thirty.

The boys across the dormitory began to stir, groaning as they sat up in a hurry. Firman, who had barely slept all night, was the first to spring from his bed. Without waiting to be told, he immediately smoothed out his blue sheet, pulling the edges taut until not a single wrinkle remained, then folded his striped blanket into a perfect square.

The boy in the next bed—a curly-haired kid named Dimas—rubbed his eyes, staring at Firman in disbelief. "Whoa, look at the new guy go. Usually new kids do nothing but cry for a whole week," Dimas rasped, his voice thick with sleep.

Firman offered only a faint smile, offering no reply. He grabbed his faded towel and headed for the communal bathroom at the back of the building.

After washing up and changing into his middle-school uniform—which was already sitting a bit small on his frame—Firman didn't sit down to rest. He walked straight to the main kitchen. There, two housemothers were busy chopping vegetables and heating a massive pot of water for the thirty orphans' breakfast.

"Excuse me, ma'am... Is there anything I can do to help?" Firman asked politely, standing at the kitchen doorway with a respectful bow.

The two housemothers turned around, startled to see a new child looking neat and ready so early in the morning. "Oh, hello. You're Firman, right? The new boy who arrived yesterday afternoon?" asked one of the women, Mrs. Lastri.

"Yes, ma'am. I can chop vegetables or sweep the yard," Firman offered promptly.

Mrs. Lastri smiled softly, her eyes flashing with a rare admiration she seldom felt for children who usually slouched when woken at dawn. "Well, if you're eager to help, please sweep the front courtyard, dear. The wind knocked down a lot of mango leaves last night."

"Yes, ma'am."

Firman grabbed a long-handled broom from the corner of the kitchen. For the next hour, with meticulous care, he swept every inch of the vast front courtyard. He gathered the dry leaves into a large bin, ensuring not a single scrap of litter remained. A light sweat beaded on his forehead, but the physical labor slowly eroded the sorrow in his chest. By keeping busy, he gave himself no time to long for his painful past.

At six-thirty, all the children gathered in the long dining hall for breakfast. The morning menu was simple: white rice, a piece of fried tempeh, and a bowl of clear vegetable soup without meat.

Firman sat in the middle row, eating quietly without making a sound. He observed the other children around him. A few younger ones whined about not liking vegetables, while others squabbled over fried tempeh, creating a noisy commotion.

Mrs. Rahma, the director, walked into the dining hall to check on the children. Her gaze swept across the room until it landed on Firman. The middle-aged woman watched as he ate with remarkable neatness, clearing every last grain of rice from his plate, before standing up to wash his dish at the back sink.

After washing his plate, Firman returned to the dining hall, picked up a clean rag sitting near the table, and wiped away the soup spills where he had just eaten.

Mrs. Rahma stepped closer and gently rested a hand on his shoulder. The touch made Firman tense up momentarily—the childhood trauma of Rizka's cold rejections still lingered—but the genuine warmth in Mrs. Rahma's hand gradually eased the tension in his shoulders.

"Firman," Mrs. Rahma called, her voice echoing with maternal tenderness.

"Yes, ma'am?" Firman turned, bowing his head slightly in respect.

"Mrs. Lastri told me you swept the entire front courtyard at dawn. Your room is remarkably tidy as well," Mrs. Rahma said, a proud smile gracing her face.

Firman gave a quiet nod. "Yes, ma'am. I... I just wanted to help. I don't want to be a burden here."

Hearing such an honest yet deeply wounded response from a thirteen-year-old child made Mrs. Rahma's heart ache. She understood immediately: the boy before her had weathered storms far too great for his age, leaving him convinced that he had to "earn" his place in the world through flawless behavior just to avoid being abandoned again.

Mrs. Rahma crouched slightly, bringing herself to eye level with Firman, and looked directly into his quiet, dull eyes.

"Listen to me, Firman," Mrs. Rahma said softly, her tone firm yet brimming with warmth. "You are never a burden. In this place, you are my child, just like everyone else. You don't have to pretend to be strong when you're tired or sad. But I truly appreciate your kindness and hard work today."

For the first time in what felt like forever, a comforting warmth spread through Firman's chest. Mrs. Rahma's words fell like cool water upon the parched desert of his soul.

"Thank you, ma'am," Firman whispered, a genuine smile finally gracing his hollow cheeks.

The first day at the orphanage—a place he had feared as the gates to ultimate rejection—had turned out to be the opening chapter of a brand-new life. Firman stepped through the green iron gates toward his new school with his head held high. He had lost his blood family, but here, under this roof, he vowed to forge his own destiny with his own two hands.