Days passed without the chime of prayer or the echo of scripture.
Siska never carried a crucifix, never invited anyone to pray, never slipped religious phrases into her speech. Yet her presence felt like an invisible protector.
In that hospital room, she sat beside Rachel, reading a book. Sometimes in silence, sometimes offering a cup of warm tea. She knew when to speak, and when to simply sit without a word.
Rachel felt surprised—and relieved. There was no pressure to talk. No urging to "forgive" or "find meaning." Only space to feel. To heal.
"If you're afraid of the night coming, I can stay until you fall asleep," Siska said one evening as she cleared away the teacup.
Rachel nodded slowly.
"I can't sleep if the lights are off," she whispered.
"The lights will stay on," Siska replied calmly. "You're in charge now. You're the one who decides everything."
That sentence, to Rachel, was more healing than ten sermons combined. She wasn't asked to be strong. She was given the right to feel weak—and still be accepted.
Sometimes they talked about food, sometimes about childhood, or silly things like the latest drama on TV. Nothing was forced to be profound.
But in the midst of those casual conversations, Rachel began to breathe a little deeper. Began to sleep more soundly. Began to dare step out of the room—even just for a moment.
She hadn't spoken much about that night. And Siska never asked. But Rachel knew, when the time came, the story would be safe in the hands of a woman who stayed by her side without ever needing to mention a single holy name.
That morning, the sun was still low when the doorbell rang.
Still in a loose nightgown and with her hair tied messily, Siska walked to the door with a cup of tea in hand. When she opened it, a polite courier stood holding a rectangular box neatly wrapped in pastel blue paper, adorned with a small golden ribbon.
"Delivery for Mrs. Lim," the courier said.
"From whom?" Siska asked, surprised.
The courier simply smiled. "Sender's name… Lim Gabriel."
Siska's heart skipped a beat. Her hand instinctively took the package. It felt just right—not too light, not too big.
After the courier left, she closed the door gently and sat at the dining table. She stared at the package for a few seconds, as if making sure she wasn't dreaming.
Slowly, she unwrapped the gift. Inside was a beautiful wooden box, carved with a small edelweiss flower in the corner. On the inside of the lid, a small handwritten card was attached:
"Thank you for giving birth to Lim Gabriel. May our love last forever.
Happy Wedding Anniversary!"
Siska covered her mouth with her hand. Her eyes filled with tears.
Gently, she turned the tiny key on the side of the box. Soft strains of Panis Angelicus began to play, filling the dining room with nostalgic notes. That song… The mass hymn that once played at the Jakarta cathedral in 1996. The day she first met Lim Woo. The day they both scrambled for a seat because they arrived late.
Siska closed her eyes. Tears slid down her cheeks in silence.
"Gabriel…" she whispered. "You remembered."
Panis Angelicus.
The gentle melody drifted from the wooden box, striking Siska's chest like a memory suddenly revived. She stood frozen, not closing the box, letting the sacred and silent music fill the room—and her heart.
Yet... she had never—not once—told anyone that she loved that song.
Not even Lim Woo. Not even Gabriel.
That song was her little secret, long buried among the thousands of days that had passed. A mass hymn once sung at the Jakarta cathedral in 1996, on the day her life quietly changed direction.
The day she was late to mass and had to fight for a seat with a young man who was also late. The day Lim Woo glared at her for being "noisy," then apologized after the service.
The day, for the first time, she felt... noticed.
Panis Angelicus. The angel's bread. A song of memory. A song of first love, even if it was never spoken as love.
She never played it again after marriage, not even after Gabriel was born. As if reviving it would mean uncovering something too personal, too... sacred.
But Gabriel knew.
How could that be?
Siska looked down at the handwritten card:
"Thank you for giving birth to Lim Gabriel. May your love last forever."
Her hands trembled. Tears welled up again.
Then her eyes fell upon a small decoration tucked in the corner of the music box—a tiny dried flower, pale white, with an unusual shape. Not round like most edelweiss. Its petals were longer, slender, growing in layers.
Ciremai edelweiss.
She had once mentioned it, just in passing, to Stefanus Urip. A flower she discovered during a field trip to Mount Ciremai—one that, according to her professor, looked quite different from the edelweiss found on other mountains.
She had even forgotten its Latin name, only remembering its odd, delicate shape.
And back then—long ago—Urip had replied with a story about how true edelweiss in Europe was even smaller. Soft, fragile, but blooming in the harshest places.
Urip. Siska suddenly straightened her back.
If it wasn't Gabriel… could it be—?
Her heart was suddenly swept with a strange warmth. Sadness, but also gratitude. Pain, but also peace.
There was something she wanted to pray for, but the words escaped her.
She could only smile softly while gently brushing the dried edelweiss petals.
"Thank you, my child…" she whispered, unsure to whom. "You're still alive… in a better form."
Lim Woo walked into the living room, loosening his tie and removing his jacket, but stopped when he saw Siska still standing near the table.
In her hands was a small music box wrapped in elegant gift paper. Her eyes were wet, her cheeks flushed as if she had just finished crying.
Gently, Lim Woo approached. "From Gaby?" he asked quietly.
Siska only nodded. She couldn't speak.
Panis Angelicus still played softly from the box, as though rewinding all the years they had lived—and those they had never shared with anyone.
Lim Woo took a deep breath, then smiled faintly. "He sent this too," he said, pulling out his phone from his jacket pocket. He showed her the screen. A reservation at a fine dining restaurant, complete with the note: May 18, 19:00 — Anniversary Dinner for Mr. & Mrs. Lim.
Siska was stunned. She still couldn't believe this all came from Gabriel—or from someone now living as Gabriel.
Lim Woo looked at his wife's face tenderly, then held her hand.
"Our child… has grown up," he said softly, full of emotion.
Siska lowered her head, wiping tears from the corner of her eyes.
"He remembered something even we had forgotten."
They fell into silence.
Only the music from the small box continued to play—filling the room, and filling their hearts with a gratitude that no words could ever explain.