A loud voice echoed from the end of the alley. Serafim paused mid-step and leaned forward to peek.
"Stupid old man! Don't pretend you didn't hear me!"
A young man in a black jacket shoved an elderly man, sending him sprawling onto the wet asphalt. The old man's scattered collection of junk—crushed cans and plastic—rolled toward the gutter.
Not a single person turned to look. No one stopped to help.
Serafim watched from afar. Not out of fear—but because his soul was in turmoil, fragments of memories swirling in his head. Normally, a part of him would've instinctively rushed to help. But this time, he froze.
Eventually, the young man walked away. The old man stayed behind, slowly gathering the cans and plastic that had scattered. His steps faltered—one leg seemingly too damaged to support him—and his rough, trembling hands wiped the blood trickling from his temple.
Serafim snapped out of his daze and stepped forward.
"Are you alright, sir?"
The old man turned and smiled. "Yes… I'm alright."
Serafim helped him pick up the scattered items. When they finished, they sat on the sidewalk beside the nearly-collapsed cart the old man used.
"Who was that?" Serafim asked softly, his gaze still fixed on the alley.
The old man sighed and wiped the blood again with his sleeve.
"That's the son of someone I used to know," he said briefly.
Serafim was quiet for a moment. "Does he do that often?"
"Often. But... that's life," the old man replied, attempting a smile that only came out bitter.
Serafim studied him for a moment before asking, "Did you know his father?"
The old man paused. The night wind ruffled his thin white hair.
"Yes. I knew his father. A long time ago… He was one of my men. We served together on the battlefield."
Serafim turned to him, surprised. "So, you were a soldier?"
"I was… Once. Now I'm just an old scavenger, barely hanging on."
The old man slowly sat down on the pavement, his breath heavy.
"I lost almost everything there. My comrades… and this leg..." he continued, "I was the commander of a small unit. His father was one of them. We were sent to the border when the country was in turmoil. Our spirits were high, even though we didn't know what awaited us."
Serafim listened with quiet reverence.
"That day… we were ambushed. I tried to protect my men. One of them was severely wounded, and I ordered everyone to fall back while I helped him. But his father—he ignored my orders. He charged forward alone."
Serafim furrowed his brow. "Why would he do that?"
The old man took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly.
"I don't know exactly. But before we were deployed, he told me about his life. He'd been tricked into a massive debt—hundreds of millions of rupiah. He said... he'd rather die a hero than live as a failure in his family's eyes. Maybe that's why he disobeyed."
Serafim was silent. His eyes drifted to the sky, imagining the moment.
"He got too close to the enemy. I tried to warn him… but an explosion hit us. It was close. I lost this leg, the wounded soldier died instantly, and… he did too."
The old man lowered his head. "I survived, but I carry the weight of their deaths. Everyone blamed me—including his son. They thought I sent him to die as a human shield."
"You didn't tell them the truth?"
"For what purpose?"
He smiled, though his gaze was hollow.
"I took responsibility. I didn't want his family to suffer. So, I paid his debts little by little. Sold everything I had. I chose not to marry—I knew it would take years to repay. So now, I live alone. Just a junk collector trying to survive."
Serafim looked at him, eyes shining. "You know… everyone should call you a hero. Even that boy."
"No need," the old man whispered. "I just didn't want his wife and son to live in shame. Let them remember him as a hero."
Days passed. Serafim often visited the old man. In his own inner confusion, he found comfort in the elder's presence—listening to his stories of bravery, loss, and sacrifice.
And with each visit, Serafim realized something: everyone he met carried a wound. Guilt. Grief. Unseen sacrifices. He began to understand—maybe he was a being of light, but even light can flicker. Slowly, his spirit rekindled.
One rainy afternoon, the boy returned. His eyes were darker than before, his stare sharp.
"I know you still have money. Stop pretending to be poor!" he yelled, pushing the frail old man.
Serafim stepped in and grabbed the boy's wrist.
"That's enough!"
"Who the hell are you?! He promised to provide for me and my mom. That's his price for killing my father! So stay out of it!"
The boy raised his hand to strike, but stopped. Serafim's gaze—calm and piercing—froze him in place. After a tense silence, the boy cursed under his breath and ran off.
The old man staggered, his body weak. Serafim caught him.
"You need rest."
But the old man chuckled, then coughed—hard, blood spilling from his lips.
"My time's almost up..."
He reached into his cart and pulled out a small wooden box, wrapped in a faded, worn ribbon.
"If I don't make it… please give this to him."
From then on, the old man rarely emerged from his cardboard shelter. He only came out to greet Serafim and eat what he brought. But soon, he didn't come out at all. His body grew too weak even to sit. And one silent morning, he left the cruel world behind… peacefully, with a smile—like a burden had finally lifted.
Serafim honored his final request. He searched for the boy and found him sitting blankly in front of a shop. Serafim approached and handed him the box.
"What's this?" the boy asked, suspicious.
"It's from someone… you hated, but who always tried to protect you."
The boy opened the box slowly.
Inside was an old medal, a faded photograph, and a slip of paper—proof of debt repayment in his father's name. But what shattered his heart was something tucked inside a torn piece of military ration wrapper: a scrawled message in his father's handwriting—
"If I die, please take care of my wife and child."
The boy's hands trembled. His eyes welled up.
"This… this is my father's writing…" he whispered.
Serafim stood before him, gaze firm.
"The commander you hated kept his promise till the end. He wanted you and your mother to remember your father as a hero. He gave up his own happiness for that. He paid every cent of your father's debt and ensured you lived well. And in return… your hatred was his only reward."
The boy looked up. "Where… is he now?"
Serafim lowered his gaze. "He's gone. Don't look for him. You're not even worthy to touch his grave."
The boy froze. The world felt still. His breath caught.
"He's… gone? I… I didn't even get to say sorry..."
Without another word, the boy searched for the old man's grave. Eventually, he found it—a simple plot, freshly covered with earth and adorned with pink and white roses. A grave among heroes.
He knelt. Lowered his head. And placed the box beside the tombstone. No tears fell. Only a trembling body… heavy with too-late regret.
"I'm sorry… and thank you…" he whispered, voice broken.
From afar, Serafim gazed up at the clear sky. Amid the gentle light, he saw the old man standing tall again—his uniform clean and sharp, face no longer pale or tired. His eyes calm, comforting.
He walked toward Serafim with the steady stride of a true commander.
"Thank you," the old man said softly. "Not just for helping me… but for being there in my final moments, even when you yourself felt empty."
Serafim lowered his head and whispered, "I… I'm not even sure who I am anymore..."
The old man smiled. "You still know how to care. That's enough."
He placed a firm hand on Serafim's shoulder.
"Sometimes we wonder if our sacrifices are all in vain. But life isn't about who notices… it's about knowing why we did it. I don't know what burden you carry—but trust yourself. Your light will guide you where you need to be."
Serafim looked at him, eyes shimmering.
"Even light," the old man said with a smile, "needs time to shine again."
And then, the old man walked through the open gate of light—his final step.
Serafim stood still, watching the last place he had stood. The air was quiet. But this time, his heart was no longer empty.
***