Under the warm Solo sky, a young woman in a simple yet graceful kebaya guided a cart filled with earthenware jars of milk. The wooden wheels creaked over the cobbled road, while her family's cattle still grazed in the fields across. Today, her father was unavailable, so it was her duty to deliver the milk to the owner's house—a grand colonial-style building with Javanese touches.

The teakwood door opened upon her arrival. An elderly servant greeted her, inspected the goods, then instructed her to wait while the price was recorded and the milk was transferred to the storage. She stood firmly on the veranda, not daring to step further.

"Tired?"

The voice came from within—deep and warm, yet carrying an air of authority. When she turned, a man of mixed heritage stood at the doorway. His features were sharp, with a clear trace of European lineage, but his gaze was soft, almost like a poet who had read too many verses. His white attire was immaculate, characteristic of an De La Fontaine Academie student.

The young woman bowed politely. "No, sir."

Haruta smiled faintly, then gestured toward a rattan chair on the veranda. "Please, sit."

She hesitated for a moment before shaking her head slightly. "I am a native, sir."

The smile on Haruta’s face widened—not mocking, but intrigued. There was courage in her voice, something different from most women he had encountered.

"And what is wrong with being native?" he asked.

"My mother is native too. Javanese." The young woman lifted her gaze slightly, uncertain. "Come, sit."

Silence stretched for a few seconds before she finally obeyed—not out of submission, but because there was something in Haruta’s eyes that felt genuine, unlike the Europeans who often looked down on her people.

And beneath the grand house’s roof, two different worlds began to touch—like milk and coffee, perhaps never fully blending, yet sharing the same taste. (Please, read backstory)