It was early May when I made my way to my father's house, an isolated little place nestled deep in the folds of nowhere, surrounded by thick hills and a treacherous, steep road that most would hesitate to call a road at all.
That night, the rain came down hard, violently, relentlessly. It wasn't just a drizzle or a gentle downpour. It was the kind of rain that deafens you, blurs your vision, and chills your bones. The temperature plummeted from a mild twenty-two degrees Celsius to a sharp, biting seventeen in a matter of hours.
Dinner was warm, at least. My father, my older brother, and I gathered at the small table inside the dim, cozy kitchen. We had gudeg—my favorite. That slow-cooked jackfruit dish, rich with coconut milk and the sweetness of palm sugar, flavored with galangal and teak leaves. The taste of Yogyakarta on a cold, stormy night. Paired with rice, it felt like comfort. Like home.
Outside, the rain refused to let up. By one in the morning, the downpour was still drumming against the roof, and my brother decided to stay the night. But I couldn’t. My two dogs were waiting for me; they never sleep unless I’m home. I had to go.
The road from my father’s house to the main road is not for the faint-hearted. Narrow. Steep. Twisting through cliffs and rows upon rows of clove trees that line the path like silent sentinels. On either side, the land drops off sharply—into what feels like nothingness.
You might think I’m insane for riding home through that in the middle of the night, in a rain. But I’m used to it. Believe it or not, my father’s house is technically still in the city. It just happens to be surrounded by privately owned clove fields and—no joke—family graveyards.
You read that right. Cemeteries.
I’ve done this ride dozens of times. My dad even calls the path “the self-esteem climbing road,” half-mocking, half-true.
So, I started my bike and pushed up the steep incline. Rain is still falling. Tires gripping the slick path. Halfway up, I felt the rear wheel tremble beneath me—like it lost its bite against the ground. I eased off the throttle.
Mistake.
By the time I reached the steepest crest, my momentum was gone. The bike stalled. The tires slipped. Gravity grabbed me by the throat.
My motorbike started sliding backward—slow at first, then suddenly. I panicked and threw my legs down to stop the fall.
Another mistake.
My foot missed solid ground. In the blink of an eye, I tipped—half the bike sliding, me lurching toward the edge of the cliff. The only thing that kept me from tumbling down that godforsaken hillside was the bike itself. It toppled sideways and wedged into the narrow path, just enough to pin me in place.
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t reach my phone in my jacket pocket. All I could do was hang on, drenched and shivering, clinging to the cold metal like it was the last lifeline I had.
There were no lights. Nothing. Just the sound of the rain and the looming silence of the cemeteries and the empty clove fields. That was the moment I stopped caring. Ghosts? Demons? Fine. Show up. Just help me.
But of course, nothing came.
Ten minutes passed. I started to wonder if I should just let go and call for help from the base of the hill. Maybe someone would find me.
Then, out of the shadows, came the boy. A familiar figure. One of the neighborhood kids, a quiet autistic boy who often loitered around my father's place. He approached carefully, peering at me with wide eyes.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
He tried to help, but he wasn’t strong enough to lift the bike or pull me up. I asked him—no, told him—to go back and get my brother. No questions asked, he nodded and ran. Down the road. Into the rain.
I waited. Soaking. Freezing. Muscles aching. Time dragged. Twenty more minutes felt like an eternity.
Then, through the storm and the dark, I heard it.
My brother’s voice—clear, frantic, filled with urgency. “HOLD ON! JUST HOLD ON! I’M COMING!”
He didn’t come alone.
My brother arrived breathless, flanked by two of my father’s workers who lived in the annex out back. They looked half-awake, faces pale under the weak beam of a flashlight, but without a word, they sprang into action.
Together, the three of them lifted the bike off me, their hands firm and fast despite the mud and rain. One of them took the handlebars, the other steadied the rear, and my brother stayed close, checking my face, my legs, and my hands, whispering, “You’re okay. You’re okay.”
I wasn’t. But I nodded anyway.
Once they pulled the motorbike upright, they didn’t let me ride it. No chance. It was too dangerous. They took turns pushing it up the rest of the steep climb, slipping on the slick road, soaked to the bone, the rain easing only slightly.
And me?
I tried to walk—but every few steps, I slid. My slipper had no grip, my legs were trembling, and the bruises on my body were starting to throb like sirens beneath my skin. My brother had to hold me steady, practically dragging me toward the main road.
The whole ordeal took thirty minutes, but it felt like hours.
By the time I got home, it was three in the morning. Soaked. Miserable. Shaking.
But alive.
My dogs greeted me with anxious whines and wet noses, unaware of how close their human had come to falling off the side of a cliff. I collapsed into the tub as soon as I could, my heart still racing as if it hadn’t realized the danger was over.
The next morning, I dragged myself to the hospital. Two broken fingers. Deep bruises across my arms, hips, and back. But no fractures. No concussion. No stitches needed.
Just pain.
And a lingering question in the back of my mind:
What if that boy hadn’t come?
18Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVUNqaIIORc
