The morning sun was already high when Siti pedaled her bicycle down the road toward the nearby pekan. She had slept poorly the night before, tossing and turning as memories of rejection haunted her. Each voice echoed in her head—"You're too young," "Where are your parents?" "This work is not for children." But she pushed them away with every push of the pedal.
Today would be different.
The pekan was livelier than the small stretch of shops she had visited yesterday. It was market day, and the streets were crowded with people. Vendors shouted about their fresh vegetables and fruits, their fish still glistening with water from the morning catch. Motorbikes and cars honked impatiently as customers hurried across the road carrying plastic bags filled with groceries. The air smelled of fried bananas, satay smoke, and damp soil after last night's rain.
Siti parked her bicycle against a lamppost and tightened the strap of her sling bag. She wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand and whispered to herself, "You can do this, Siti. You just need to ask."
Her first stop was a fabric shop at the corner, where colorful kain batik hung neatly from racks outside. She stepped in, her heart hammering, and approached the man at the counter.
"Uncle," she said, her voice steady despite her nerves, "do you need help here? I can fold cloth, arrange the shop, anything."
The man looked down at her, his glasses slipping slightly on his nose. He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "You're so kecil, girl. This shop is not a place for children to work. You should go home and study."
Siti thanked him quietly and left, the sting of disappointment already pricking her eyes.
At the fruit stall across the street, she asked again. The stall owner, a woman with a friendly smile, looked at her sympathetically. "I'm sorry, dik. The work is heavy. These baskets of mangos and durians are heavier than you. I cannot let you do it."
At the bakery, the stationery shop, the small warung selling nasi lemak—everywhere, the answer was the same. Too young. Too small. Go home. Go to school.
By the time she checked her watch, the small silver one her father had once given her, the hands pointed at 1 p.m. The sun was at its hottest, the streets buzzing with heat and exhaustion. Her legs ached from walking, her throat dry, and her heart heavier than it had been yesterday.
She decided to stop for a while.
---
The park sat at the edge of the pekan, shaded by tall angsana trees. The air was cooler here, the rustle of leaves softer than the noise of the market. Families sat on picnic mats, children played on swings and slides, and an old man fed breadcrumbs to a flock of pigeons.
Siti found an empty bench under a tree and sank into it, letting her bag slip off her shoulder. She pulled out her water bottle and drank deeply, her gaze wandering to the children playing nearby. Their laughter carried easily through the air, bright and carefree. She felt a sharp pang in her chest—those children had their parents watching them, clapping as they went down the slide, clapping as they laughed. She had no one.
She hugged her knees to her chest, wishing she could disappear into the shade.
It was then that she noticed someone approaching.
A young woman, maybe in her mid-twenties, with a soft face framed by a light blue tudung, walked toward the bench. She carried a sling bag across her shoulder and smiled warmly as she stopped in front of Siti.
"Hello," the woman said gently. "Why are you sitting here all alone?"
Siti blinked up at her, startled. "I… I'm just resting."
The woman sat down beside her, leaving enough space so Siti didn't feel crowded. "My name is Safura," she introduced herself, her tone kind and open. "What's yours?"
"Siti. Siti Suhaili," she replied softly.
"That's a beautiful name." Safura tilted her head slightly, studying the little girl. "So, Siti… are you looking for something? You seemed a bit troubled when I saw you just now."
Siti hesitated. She wasn't used to telling strangers about her problems. But something about Safura's eyes—kind, patient—made her want to speak. "I… I was looking for a job," she admitted, lowering her gaze to her shoes.
Safura's eyebrows lifted slightly. "A job? But you're just a little girl. Why do you need to work?"
Siti bit her lip. The words threatened to choke her, but she forced them out. "Because… because no one is here to take care of me. My parents are… gone. They send me money, but I don't know how to use the card. And everyone says I'm too young to work."
Her voice cracked on the last sentence. She clenched her fists tightly, willing herself not to cry.
For a long moment, Safura didn't speak. Then she reached out gently and touched Siti's shoulder. "You're very brave to be looking for work at your age. Most children would be too scared. I can see you're a strong girl, Siti."
Siti's eyes widened. No one had called her strong before.
Safura smiled. "Tell me, would you like to work with me?"
Siti straightened, hope sparking inside her. "Yes! I would! Please, I really want to work."
"Alright then," Safura said. "I work at an orphanage nearby. We always need people to help with the children there. They don't just need food or clothes—they need friends. Someone to play with, someone to talk to. Do you think you can do that?"
Siti blinked. "Play… with the kids?"
"Yes." Safura's smile widened. "That's the job. If you come and help, you'll get two hundred ringgit. It's not heavy work, just being with the other children. You'll fit right in, I think."
Two hundred ringgit. The number felt huge to Siti, who had never earned a single sen on her own. But more than the money, the thought of having a place to belong, of not being alone, made her chest tighten with something new—excitement.
"Yes," Siti said quickly, her voice firm. "I'll do it! I want to do it."
"Good," Safura said, nodding. She pulled a small notepad from her bag and scribbled an address. "Here's the orphanage. Come tomorrow morning, and I'll introduce you to the others. Don't worry—you'll be safe, and you'll like it there."
Siti took the note carefully, holding it as though it were made of gold. She read the address twice, committing it to memory, her heart racing.
"Thank you, Kak Safura," she whispered, her voice trembling with gratitude.
"Don't thank me yet," Safura said with a chuckle. "Come tomorrow, and then we'll see. But I think you'll do wonderfully."
---
When Siti pedaled home later that afternoon, the world seemed brighter. The same road she had traveled in despair now felt lighter under her wheels. The air smelled fresher, the trees greener, the sky wider. For once, she didn't feel invisible.
She parked her bicycle at the gate, practically running inside. The silence of the house no longer felt so crushing; it was just a pause, waiting for tomorrow.
After a quick dinner of rice and fried ikan bilis, she retreated to her room and sat on her bed, pulling out the note Safura had given her. She read the address again, smiling so wide her cheeks hurt. For the first time in months, she had something to look forward to.
As she lay down, hugging her pillow, her heart felt light, almost free. She whispered into the dark:
"Tomorrow, I won't be alone."
And for the first time in a long time, she fell asleep with a smile on her face.