Pak Bakar didn't look up immediately. He finished tying a knot, his movements precise and calm. "The river doesn't reach the sea in a straight line, Amri. It bends, it hits rocks, and sometimes it seems to stop in a pool. But the water always knows where it's going."
The wooden floorboards of the old house in Kuala Kangsar creaked under Amri’s feet as he paced the room. In his hand, he gripped a rejection letter from the university—the third one this month. Outside, the evening rain drummed against the zinc roof, a relentless rhythm that matched the pounding in his chest. "Why is everything so hard?" he muttered to the empty room. Bapa Ku Percaya
"I know," Pak Bakar smiled. "You finally stopped fighting the current." Pak Bakar didn't look up immediately
"You stopped fighting the current for a second when you saw me reaching out. You didn't ask if I was strong enough or if the bank would hold. You just grabbed my hand. You trusted me." Pak Bakar stood up, placing a heavy, warm hand on Amri’s shoulder. "Believe that the One who gave me the strength to pull you out then is the same One guiding you now. Bapa ku percaya —not just in me, but in the path laid out for you." It bends, it hits rocks, and sometimes it
His father, Pak Bakar, sat on the porch, his weathered hands methodically repairing a fishing net. He hadn't said much since the news arrived. To Amri, his father’s silence felt like indifference.