Aditya Putra had always believed in dreams. Not the ones that came while sleeping, but the kind woven with sweat and hope. A simple dream for an only child from an ordinary family in Indonesia: to make his parents happy, to see their smiles no longer clouded by burdens. But now, at the age of twenty-five, that dream felt like ashes scattering in the cold Tokyo air.
The dazzling neon lights of Shibuya, which should have been captivating, were now just piercing lines of light to his tired eyes. The enticing aroma of ramen and takoyaki, once so inviting, was now overshadowed by the stale smell of old paper and instant coffee, which no longer had the power to invigorate him. It had been almost three days, or precisely seventy-two hours, since he had left his seat in that cramped cubicle. His body felt frozen, his mind clouded, and every breath felt like a heavy weight on his chest.
A loud thud startled him—it was the sound of the copier machine finishing a thick stack of reports. At that very moment, the voice he utterly despised broke the silence, "Aditya-kun, this report must be finished before morning!"
Manager Tanaka. A middle-aged man with thick glasses and a sly smile Aditya always suspected. Tanaka didn't even bother to look at Aditya, merely waving his hand without turning from his larger, more comfortable cubicle. A black company, as the Japanese called it. A trap for desperate migrant workers seeking a livelihood. Aditya was one of its victims.
He clearly remembered his first days in Tokyo. Hopes overflowing, sweet promises from the recruitment agency, and his parents' blessings echoing in his ears. "Be careful, son. Take care of your health in a foreign land," his mother's voice, soft yet full of worry. "Father believes in you, son," his father had said, followed by a warm hug that, at the time, felt like a protective shield against all difficulties.
But reality was far crueler. The promised salary was a mere deception. Inhumane working hours were the standard. Most of his earnings were spent on rent for a tiny capsule apartment and cheap instant noodles. Forget sending money home; he had to think twice just to afford a decent meal.
His phone vibrated in the pocket of his worn-out shirt. An incoming call from his mother. Aditya froze. A week ago, when they last spoke, his mother had asked, "How are you, son? Stay healthy over there, don't get sick."
Healthy? Aditya laughed hollowly in his heart. The word felt like a bitter irony, mocking him. Here, amidst the ceaseless bustle of this never-sleeping city, he felt more dead than alive. His heart pounded irregularly, wildly leaping as if trying to escape his ribcage.
Cold sweat drenched his temples, mingling with tears that had, at some point, streamed down his cheeks. He didn't know if they were tears of regret for choosing this path, tears of unbearable exhaustion, or simply the despair crushing him. Perhaps, all three had merged into a single burden on his soul.
Aditya's hand trembled violently as he tried to reach for the mouse. The numbers on the monitor screen now spun wildly, forming an endless spiral that dragged him into an abyss.
His eyelids felt incredibly heavy, as if an enormous weight was pressing them down. In his fading consciousness, an image appeared.
His mother and father's faces, tired smiles yet full of love. They were proud when he graduated from college, proud when he dared to venture abroad.
"I'm sorry, Dad, Mom," Aditya whispered,
his voice choked in his throat.
"I'm sorry, I couldn't fulfill that promise."
"I'm sorry, I ended up like this… alone."
The monitor's light dimmed, growing darker until it finally vanished completely, replaced by a profound darkness that swallowed everything. A chill spread from his toes, slowly creeping throughout his body, reaching the crown of his head. The sound of the copier, the keyboard clicks, even the faint hum of the air conditioning that always accompanied him, all disappeared.
There was only absolute silence enveloping him. A silence that, strangely, for the first time in a very long time, felt so… peaceful.
However, that peace was also an end. The end of a heroic yet tragic struggle.
The end of Aditya Putra, a young man who worked himself to his very limits.
The end of a dream burned to ashes under the cruel and unjust pressures of life.
And as his last breath escaped him, no one in that bustling office realized that behind cubicle number three, a soul had departed. He left, carrying deep regrets and unfulfilled hopes.
Outside the window, dawn began to break, painting the Tokyo sky with stunning gradients of orange and purple. As if the universe itself was escorting his departure, spreading a faint hope that somewhere, in another realm, a new chapter was about to begin.