Whispers of Legacy
It started with a room.
Not a nursery. Not a home office. Just… a spare room we hadn’t decided on yet. It had beige walls and a window facing the east, letting in the soft morning light that made even silence feel warm.
One Sunday morning, I stood in the middle of that room with Fadli, barefoot, sipping kopi tubruk. He asked, “What do you want to make of this space?”
I shrugged. “Not sure yet.”
He smiled. “Maybe that’s okay.”
Maybe it was.
The truth is, our life was still a draft. A story in progress. Some pages filled with love letters and quiet victories, others stained with tears, missed calls, and the ache of choosing growth over comfort.
We never did name that room. Some weeks we joked it would be the baby’s room. Other times, it became a reading nook, or a prayer corner. But more than anything, it was a space that reminded us that not everything needed to be defined just yet.
That night, as rain tapped on the windows, I sat beside Fadli on the floor of that room. We played an old voice note from our first year together—my laugh, his terrible guitar skills, and our shared awkwardness. We laughed until tears welled in our eyes.
Then silence again. The comfortable kind.
I leaned my head on his shoulder. “Do you ever wonder if we’re doing this right?”
“All the time,” he said. “But if it still feels like home—even in the unknown—maybe that’s the answer.”
Outside, the world moved fast. Friends got married. Some separated. Babies were born. Careers soared or faded. But inside our small home, with its unnamed room, we held on to something quieter—legacy not as something we leave behind, but something we live inside.
And maybe one day, when someone else asks what that room was for, we’ll smile and say—
Well.
We’ll see.