The next day, Arman is already awake with water hitting his shoulders. It's still dark outside, the sky heavy and uncommitted, the city holding its breath before the day decides to begin.
By the time he steps back outside, wrapped in a thin towel, the call to Fajr Prayer has already begun to drift through the neighborhood.
Ash-shalātu khayrun min an-nawm floats from a loudspeaker, the reminder woven into the Azaan: that prayer is better than sleep.
Arman dresses, and walks toward the small mosque a few streets over. The road is quiet in that fragile way Jakarta only manages before dawn.
Inside the mosque, he follows the congregation prayer as best he can. The stillness, the humility, and the way the men stand shoulder to shoulder without asking who deserves the space.
When it's over, he steps back outside and finds Mr. Mulyono already there, tying his sandals.
"Morning, Arman," the old man says, smiling as he straightens up.
"Morning, Pak Mulyono." Arman replies.
