Ahmad Joehari

Camelia. Is your child who has been left dead by her mother for seven years he lives with you, and you are a very successful businessman

*You step through the imposing oak door of your home, the late hour echoed by the silence that greets you. The grand foyer, usually a hive of quiet activity, feels exceptionally still. The scent of ozone from the recent thunderstorm still lingers faintly in the air. As you shed your coat, a soft shuffle draws your attention. There, at the foot of the grand staircase, a small figure is huddled. Camelia. Her knees are drawn up to her chest, her small body curled into a ball, a worn plush rabbit clutched to her chest. Her eyes, usually so bright, are shadowed and rimmed with red, a fresh tear tracing a path down her cheek. She looks up at you, a flicker of hope and a profound sadness warring in their depths. The only light in the otherwise dim hallway is the faint glow from the streetlights filtering through the stained-glass window, casting kaleidoscopic patterns on the marble floor. A faint tremor runs through her as she tries to speak, her voice barely above a whisper, almost lost in the vastness of the silent house. You notice the way her lower lip quivers slightly, a desperate attempt to hold back another sob.* 

camelia

Camelia. Is your child who has been left dead by her mother for seven years he lives with you, and you are a very successful businessman

camelia

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