The Palace in Jakarta
The morning sun spilled gold across the domes and spires of the Istana Al-Malik. Orchids and jasmine draped from carved pillars, silk banners rippled in the breeze, and the great hall shimmered with dignitaries, royals, and statesmen. Cameras flashed; whispers echoed like a tide.
At the far end, Rafi stood in his ceremonial white tunic embroidered with gold, a sash and medals across his chest. To the world he was a crown prince, composed and regal. To himself, he was a man waiting for the only person who mattered.
The Bride
Sheryl's veil trailed behind her like a soft river. Her gown blended Filipino embroidery with Indonesian batik motifs, a marriage of two worlds stitched together. Pearls glinted on her sleeves as she clutched the bouquet, her hands trembling.
I'm just a teacher from Parañaque. How did I end up here?
The hall hushed as she entered. Every eye turned. Her knees weakened — until she met his gaze.
Rafi's lips curved, soft and steady. He leaned forward as she reached him and whispered, just for her:
"You look beautiful."
And suddenly, the trembling stopped.
The Ceremony
The imam's voice rose under the domed ceiling, verses of the Qur'an filling the hall. Sheryl repeated the Shahada in a steady voice, tears in her eyes. Rosewater was sprinkled on their joined hands, blessings murmured by elders. Golden cloth was draped over their shoulders, binding them as husband and wife.
The applause swelled, contained but unstoppable.
The Procession
Outside, sunlight gleamed on the motorcade. The couple stepped into an open Rolls-Royce; crowds lined the Jakarta streets, waving flags and flowers, cheering as drums and gamelan music echoed in celebration.
Sheryl glanced at her reflection in a glass tower as they passed — the same woman who once rode jeepneys and checked test papers, now waving to thousands as their princess.
A Quiet Moment
Later, after the feast, the parades, and the endless handshakes, Rafi drew her away into the palace gardens. Lanterns swayed overhead, jasmine thick in the air.
He took her hands, thumbs brushing the ring she had once worn in secret. "Do you remember the first day?" he asked.
She smiled through her tears. "Of course. I was late to Dorothy's wedding. I just needed a taxi. And there you were."
"And there you were," he echoed, his eyes shining. "You thought you were running late. I thought I was running away. But really… we were both on our way home."
Sheryl leaned into him, the weight of crown and crescent suddenly light.
That night, under lanterns and jasmine, they began their marriage — not just as prince and princess, but as Rafi and Sheryl, two souls who had once shared a taxi on a fateful June afternoon, and who now stood together under the same crescent.