POV Aisha
One afternoon, Aisha was assigned duty at the Big House—the residence of the Kyai and his family. The duty was always done in pairs, and each pair stayed for three days and three nights. This time, her partner was Bela.
Aisha pushed open the large wooden door, its surface intricately carved and cool under her fingers. The moment she stepped inside, the scent of the house enveloped her: aged wood, fine dust, and a warmth that hinted at lives lived long before hers.
"Assalamu'alaikum," she murmured, careful to let her voice blend with the quiet hum of the house.
"Wa'alaikumussalam."
The reply came from a young woman, perhaps nineteen, with a soft face and an easy smile. There was a calm authority in her gestures—someone used to receiving visitors and keeping order.
"I'm Septi," she said, introducing herself as the wife of the Kyai's youngest brother. Though married, she still lived in the Big House and mentioned that she would soon move out.
Aisha nodded politely. Then, without thinking, a question slipped from her lips—light, reflexive, unintended.
"Who is she?"
Both Bela and Septi turned, surprise clear on their faces. Aisha's chest tightened immediately.
"Ah—I mean—" She waved her hands in panic. "Sorry. That came out wrong. Ever since yesterday's accident, sometimes I… mix up words."
She forced a small, awkward smile, hoping it would be enough.
Inside, she exhaled a long, quiet sigh. Good grief… how am I going to survive three full days like this?
Septi, fortunately, seemed unbothered. She smiled gently, already accustomed to the quirks of young santri.
"It's alright. I'll be stepping out for a bit. Please tidy everything neatly while I'm gone, okay?"
"Yes, Aunty," Aisha and Bela replied in near unison.
Once Septi left, Bela immediately headed inside, while Aisha lingered at the doorway for a moment. Her eyes swept over the room again: the high ceilings, the carved wooden doors, the lingering scent of aged timber—every detail whispered history, as though the house itself had absorbed countless stories over the decades.
"Bela," she called softly, "where should I put my bag?"
Bela giggled. "In the girls' room, of course. Come on."
After storing their belongings, Bela clapped her hands once. "Alright, let's get started. You want to sweep or mop?"
Aisha shrugged. "Whatever you prefer."
"Then you sweep, Sis Ruqayyah. I'll mop. Fair enough?"
Aisha nodded and picked up the coconut-fiber broom. It felt awkward in her hands, but she forced herself to ignore it. They set to work—sweeping floors, wringing water, washing dishes, hanging laundry—one task bleeding into the next.
Aisha was still lazily sweeping the floor when a sudden ding echoed in her head.
[Ding! Host, a mission is available for you.]
She furrowed her brow and muttered half-annoyed, "Another mission? Can't you see I'm working?"
[This one is very important, Host. The reward is worth it. Mission: Build rapport with the residents of the house. Reward: Master all basic mathematics.]
Aisha froze. Her eyes widened for a moment before a broad grin spread across her face. "That… is incredible."
But as quickly as it appeared, the smile faded. Her expression flattened, and her tone turned sharp. "After this, give me a mission with a reward of 'mastering intermediate mathematics,' okay? I'm tired of hearing about basic math."
The system seemed to chuckle—a soft, amused sound—before vanishing without a trace.
Aisha exhaled, staring down at the broom in her hands. She muttered under her breath, "Alright then… a mission to get close to the residents. Let's see just how 'easy' this is going to be."
Until her shoulders ached and her arms grew heavy.
Her eyes fell on the two baskets of laundry in the corner.
There was still ironing to do.
Aisha went first. The iron was hot and heavy, her movements stiff and hesitant. In another time, another life, she would have never touched such an object.
Bela watched silently for a moment. "Need help?"
Aisha almost sighed in relief. "That would be far more useful than just standing there staring at me like a statue," she said, half-joking.
Bela laughed and fetched another iron. The moment the cord was plugged in—
Crack!
A tiny spark jumped.
"La ilaha illallah!" Aisha exclaimed instinctively.
"Ya Allah!" Bela leapt back.
They stared at each other, frozen for a second. Then—without warning—they dissolved into laughter. Light, silly, childish laughter, the kind that bubbles up after narrowly escaping a minor disaster.
Aisha's smile lingered even as the lights flicked on and the scent of sautéed onions drifted in from the kitchen.
"Ruqayyah, you'll cook later, okay?" called Bu Nyai.
Aisha's smile vanished instantly.
Cook?
Bela looked at her. "Aren't you good at cooking?"
Aisha's jaw almost dropped. She lowered her head, patting her shoulder as though she were completely exhausted. "Bela… I'm too tired today. Could you do it instead?"
Bela scratched her head. "I can't cook."
They stared at each other, equally baffled.
Septi appeared in the doorway, clearly suppressing laughter. "So, what are you planning to cook?"
"No idea," they said together.
Septi finally laughed aloud. "Alright then. I'll teach you. But first, peel the onions and wash the vegetables."
Aisha exhaled in relief. Minutes later, her eyes stung from the onions. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she wiped them repeatedly, a little annoyed at herself.
Night fell. After Isya prayer, the Big House was hushed. Only the gentle whir of an old ceiling fan accompanied them as they finished the last of the ironing.
Footsteps echoed from the yard.
Raiz and Zaki appeared.
"Assalamu'alaikum."
"Wa'alaikumussalam."
"Bu Nyai sends her regards. We were told to fetch the Al-Barzanji," Zaki said.
Bela stood. "Oh, right. Wait a moment." She went toward the living room.
Raiz headed to the bathroom, leaving Aisha and Zaki alone.
Zaki stepped closer—too close. He held out a black obsidian-bead bracelet, engraved with a small R.
"So you won't forget me," he whispered.
Aisha froze. Her hand accepted it reflexively before her mind could catch up. Her face remained calm, but a twinge of discomfort settled in her chest.
This boy… truly has no sense of propriety.
She said nothing. When Bela returned, the atmosphere returned to normal—as if nothing had happened.