Under a sky that seemed reluctant to open, thick smoke haze hung like a thin overcast embracing the morning. The dry air of the drought carried a bitter edge in the throat, yet he still rode his black motorcycle past coconut trees, banana plants, cassava, areca palms, wild grass and weeds standing silent as witnesses. A mask covered his face, but it could not cover his resolve. The heavenly garden waited, the place where every day he burned himself for the children of the nation. On time. Always.

That day coincided with the remembrance of Pancasila Sanctity Day. He stood in the field alongside fellow educators, ranks neat even though faces were covered by cloth. The children learned from home. The ceremony ended, then came a heavier moment. A colleague who used to sit beside his desk had reached retirement. The overcast of sorrow descended thicker than the haze outside. Tears could no longer be held back. Some faces strained to hold them in, some shoulders trembled softly. Too many memories suddenly felt fragile. He felt the same tremor in his chest: a gentle yet deep sense of loss, like warm ash from a fire only recently extinguished. Yet the fire within him did not go out. He only bowed for a moment, stored the feeling, then returned.

His desk waited. The laptop opened, the headset put on. The Zoom invitation had already been sent to the XI F5 group chat. The material flowed about the founding of the Mughal Dynasty that received aid from the Safavid Dynasty. Then XI F3. Then XII F4, about the Islamic kingdoms in Sumatra: Samudra Pasai, Malacca, Aceh Darussalam, and how they sent their scholars to Java such as Syarif Hidayatullah and Maulana Malik Ibrahim. His voice stayed calm, clear, full of conviction. Behind the screen he imagined young faces watching, absorbing, and perhaps one day carrying those stories farther. Every sentence was a small droplet he let fall onto dry ground. Every explanation was a form of love that needed no words.

Noon approached. Lessons ended. The call to prayer sounded softly through the haze. He performed ablution with water that felt cool on the skin, then walked toward the mosque inside the heavenly garden. The haze now danced down across the field. He covered his mouth and nose with the prayer mat he carried, his steps slow but steady. Inside the mosque his body bowed in prayer together with the surrounding residents. The movements of prayer felt warm, like an unseen embrace. Sitting cross-legged after the greeting of peace, he felt his breath grow easier. No grand words. Only presence. Only the sense that amid smoke and fatigue there was still room to bow and give thanks. The small fire in his chest remained alight, not because the strong wind had stopped, but because he chose to keep it alive.

Back at his desk he rested a while. Amid the burning fatigue in his shoulders and eyes, he took a moment to send the light of his work to the University of South Carolina in Columbia, South Carolina, United States. The haze still danced outside the window, yet he was already used to it. Dedication does not wait for clear skies. Then afternoon arrived. A light drizzle passed through briefly, thin droplets that fell and soon vanished. He mounted his black motorcycle again and rode home toward the house that still carried the remaining mortgage debt. Every kilometer was a quiet step of repayment. Every day of teaching was proof that the burden could be lifted little by little. The hope of financial freedom was no empty dream. It was a fire kept burning even though strong winds continued to blow. And behind it all his commitment to the Education Impact Fund remained intact: so that the light he produced would not stop with him alone.

Arriving home, the door opened. His little daughter ran toward him with small steps full of eagerness, a bright face that had not yet had time to change. Suddenly those small feet slipped. The tiny body fell. Crying broke out, loud and sudden, like something cracking inside the chest. He immediately knelt, without thinking, without hesitation. Arms opened wide, drawing the child into an embrace. The chest that still carried the remnants of a full day’s weariness now became the safest place in the world. He stroked the small back slowly, again and again, feeling the vibrations of the sobs gradually subside. Time seemed to slow. In that embrace he felt all the anxiety of being a father mixed with a love beyond measure. How fragile that small body was, how easily it could fall, and how great the responsibility to keep being present, to keep being the place of return. The crying eased. His daughter’s breath grew calm again. The small head rested on his shoulder. He continued holding her longer, allowing the warmth to soothe them both. In that moment he understood once more: the greatest dedication was not only in the classroom, but here, on the simple floor of home, where the fire within him turned into a healing embrace.

Night arrived. He took his children to the mosque in the housing complex. The communal prayer felt familiar, warm, like a large family gathering that needed few words. After the greeting of peace, the recitation of Yasin flowed gently, followed by a shared prayer. Voices softened, joined together, forming a safe space amid the smoke haze that still covered the sky. He felt his heart grow lighter. Then dinner with his wife and children. A simple table, ordinary food, yet their presence made everything enough.

Before sleep the phone screen lit up. The light of his work had entered Visual Art Journal issue #61 published in the Netherlands. A thin smile appeared on his face. The smoke haze still covered the night, yet his light had crossed the ocean. He closed his eyes, allowing the tired body to finally rest.

On this 139th day he rose again from the ashes of exhaustion, small failures, and the burdens that kept pressing. Phoenix appears only once in this long journey, as a reminder that true rising is born from small acts repeated with full love. The fire stays alight not because the sky is clear, but because he chooses to keep that ember alive, droplet by droplet, day after day. Daily consistency is the purest form of love, the quietest rising, and the light that can still pierce even the thickest overcast.

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