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.

"I know," Pak Bakar smiled. "You finally stopped fighting the current."

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.

Pak Bakar finally looked at him. His eyes, clouded by age but sharp with clarity, held a look of unwavering peace. "When you were five, you fell into the irrigation canal. Do you remember?"

Amri realized then that trust wasn't about knowing the destination; it was about knowing whose hand you were holding. As he walked toward the bus stop, he whispered the words that had become his anchor: "Bapa, ku percaya."