The morning came with the sound of birdsong outside her window. The world looked fresh, the sky painted with strokes of gold as the sun rose. But to Siti, the weight of her decision pressed heavier than her schoolbag once had.
She had promised herself the night before—today she would find a job.
After washing her face and brushing her hair, she dressed in her neatest clothes: a simple pink blouse her mother had once bought for her and a pair of black jeans that had begun to fade at the knees. She tied her hair back in a ponytail, looking at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes stared back at her—too young, too soft. She tried to stand taller, to look older, but she still looked like the little girl she was.
With a deep breath, she grabbed her sling bag, tucked the bank card inside for courage, and wheeled her bicycle out of the gate.
The road to town was the same one she had taken yesterday, but today it felt different. She wasn't going to face an ATM; she was going to face people. Adults. Strangers who might look at her and laugh, or worse, shake their heads and turn her away. Still, she pedaled on.
---
The first place she stopped was a small bakery with the smell of fresh bread spilling onto the street. She parked her bicycle outside and peeked in. The shelves were stacked with loaves, buns, and pastries, and behind the counter, a woman in a white apron arranged trays with quick, practiced movements.
Siti hesitated, then stepped inside.
"Selamat pagi," she greeted softly, her voice almost drowned by the hum of the refrigerator.
The woman looked up, surprised. "Oh, good morning, dik. You want to buy something?"
Siti swallowed hard. "No… I mean, yes, but… actually, I was wondering if you need help here. Maybe I can… I can clean, or arrange the bread?"
The woman's eyebrows lifted, and she let out a small chuckle. "Help? How old are you, sayang?"
"Eleven," Siti answered quickly, hoping it sounded older than it was.
The woman's smile turned gentle, almost pitying. "Oh, no, no. You're too young. This is work for adults. You should be in school."
Siti's face burned. She nodded quickly, murmured a thank you, and slipped out of the shop. Her bicycle felt heavier as she climbed on again.
---
Her next stop was a kopitiam at the corner of the street. The clatter of plates and chatter of customers filled the air. She saw a man wiping tables, his shirt damp with sweat, and gathered her courage to approach him.
"Excuse me, abang," she said, tugging at the strap of her bag nervously. "Do you need more workers here? I can carry plates, wash dishes—"
The man looked down at her, frowning. "You? Work here? What are you, twelve?"
"Eleven," she corrected softly.
He shook his head firmly. "No, no. This is not work for children. Where are your parents?"
Siti bit her lip. She wanted to say they're busy, they're away, but the words caught in her throat. She lowered her head instead. "Okay… terima kasih."
Her cheeks burned hotter than before as she walked back to her bicycle. The laughter of the customers behind her felt sharp, even if it wasn't meant for her.
---
She tried a small sundry shop next. Then a fruit stall. Then the laundry at the edge of town. Each time, the answer was the same.
"You're too young."
"Where are your parents?"
"You should be in school."
The sun climbed higher, scorching her skin, and sweat trickled down her back. Her legs grew weak from cycling up and down the streets, her hope shrinking with each rejection.
At the pasar malam ground, where stalls would later be set up in the evening, she saw a man unloading crates of drinks from a lorry. She ran up, breathless, and offered to help. "Uncle, I can carry the boxes! Please, I just want to work."
The man looked at her small frame, at her thin arms, and laughed kindly. "These boxes are heavier than you, girl. Go home, study hard, then one day you can run your own stall."
The words stung. Not because they were unkind, but because they reminded her of what she no longer had: school, parents, a normal life.
By midday, Siti had stopped at nearly ten places. Every door closed on her. Every adult looked at her the same way—with disbelief, with pity, with rejection.
Her stomach growled, but she ignored it. She had packed no food, only the determination to prove she could do this. But by now, even that determination felt worn and fragile.
She cycled slower on the way back, her head drooping. The roads blurred in front of her eyes, and she realized only when she felt the wetness on her cheeks that she had been crying silently all along.
---
Back at home, she leaned her bicycle against the gate and dragged herself inside. The house greeted her with its usual silence, but today the silence felt heavier, crueler, as though mocking her failure.
She dropped her sling bag onto the sofa and went straight to her room. The bank card lay in its box under the bed, shining faintly under the dim light, reminding her of everything she could not do. She slammed the lid shut.
Throwing herself onto the bed, she buried her face in her pillow. She had tried. She had cycled the whole town, asked every place she could think of, begged even. And still, no one wanted her.
Her chest ached, not just from the disappointment but from the truth she couldn't escape—she was just a child. To the world, she was too small, too weak, too young.
As the sky outside darkened, she lay still on her bed, her body heavy with exhaustion. The house creaked around her, the fan whirred overhead, but she didn't move.
She wanted to believe she was strong enough to survive alone. She wanted to believe she didn't need her parents. But the sting of rejection whispered otherwise.
And yet, even through her tears, a small part of her whispered back: Tomorrow, maybe. Tomorrow I'll try again.
But tonight, Siti let herself cry until sleep carried her away, alone in the silent house that never answered back.