Peace Among the Sound of Machines

The sound of an old engine roaring filled the small room, mixed with the smell of oil, hot iron, and a hint of coffee from a worn cup on the table. In the corner of the simple workshop with a rough cement floor, a young man in a plain T-shirt and faded jeans was bent over repairing the undercarriage of an old, faded blue car.

His name is Dion. Or, as the locals more familiarly call him — Mas Dion .

His hands deftly turned the wrench, while his lips sometimes murmured softly, as if talking to the machine itself.

"It's nice to live like this..." he whispered with a faint smile, as if talking to the disc brakes he was tightening.

"Peaceful. No one looking for trouble. No one arguing about numbers, stocks, or extended family matters..."

He took a deep breath. The fresh air of Salatiga mixed with the dust of the workshop that flew slowly, creating a daily rhythm that calmed his heart.

On the wooden shelves behind him, neatly lined up are old tools, some of which have even begun to rust. But somehow, everything still works as if it just came out of the factory yesterday afternoon — perhaps, thanks to Dion's hands, who, without many people realizing it, have skills beyond the ordinary mechanic's reasoning.

"If it weren't for one of these special bolts," he muttered again, examining the rare component he had assembled from used parts, "this old car might be a memory."

His smile grew wider. Instead of chasing prestige or luxury, Dion found his happiness here — amidst the roar of old machines and mediocre customers. A quiet life, without the big name that used to hang on his shoulders.

From a distance, the sound of a neighbor's shop calling could be heard.

"Mr. Dion! Have some coffee first, Mr. Dion!"

Dion chuckled softly, wiping his hands with a dirty rag hanging from his pocket.

"Wait a minute, Miss! I'm really loving my old car!"

A small laugh echoed from the stall.

Behind the simplicity, no one knew that the relaxed man in shabby clothes, who was now joking with a shabby machine, had once stood in the spotlight of a large hall, flanked by top conglomerates — before finally choosing to disappear from that world... and build his new life in this small place.

For Mas Dion, Salatiga is not just a place to live.

It is his hideout. The heat that afternoon felt sharper than usual. The dry air made dust fly along the small road to Dion's workshop.

From a distance, the sound of an expensive car engine growled closer. A shiny black sedan — a European brand that was rarely seen on the streets of Salatiga — pulled up in a flashy style in front of the modest workshop. The road dust seemed reluctant to stick to its shiny paint.

A man in his thirties came out with a swagger, wearing a crisp white shirt and shiny leather shoes. He looked around Dion's workshop — full of old tools, dilapidated cars, and the smell of oil — with a sneer on his face.

"This is... a repair shop?" he asked half in doubt, half in mockery, waving his hand in front of his nose, as if the smell of oil would stick to his expensive clothes.

Dion, who had just finished fixing the hood of an old car, wiped his hands and smiled kindly. "Yes, sir. Can I help you?"

The man frowned. "My car... made a strange noise. The official repair shop is closed today. I had no choice but to stop by here," he said, emphasizing the word "had no choice" with disgust.

Dion just smiled, not responding to the sarcastic tone. "Can I check, sir?"

Without a word, the rich man threw the key at Dion. It almost hit his head if Dion hadn't been quick to catch it.

"If you can't, don't touch it, okay? This car is expensive, you know," the man added in a warning tone, as if Dion was not worthy of touching a car of that class.

Dion nodded casually. He walked around the sedan, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. One deep breath, one twitch of the ear listening to the vibrations of the engine as he started it — and Dion knew.

"It's not too bad, sir. It looks like there's just a problem with the intake valve, and a dirty air sensor," he said simply.

The rich man laughed sarcastically. "Hah! A village mechanic pretending to understand European engines."

Dion just nodded slightly. Without saying much, he started working. His movements were fast, precise, and clean. His hands played behind the hood like a maestro with his violin. One by one, small components were cleaned, adjusted, tightened. Without sophisticated diagnostic tools, only with intuition and pure expertise.

It didn't take more than twenty minutes.

The engine that had been roaring roughly was now humming softly, almost like a whisper.

Dion patted the hood of the car gently. "Okay, sir. Try starting it."

With a disdainful expression, the rich man got into the car and started the engine. Instantly, his face changed. His eyes widened in disbelief. The engine was... smooth. Smoother than when he first bought the car.

Dion smiled slightly, politely returning the key. "It's normal, sir. Just a suggestion, you should clean the air filter regularly. If left alone, it could be dangerous."

The man stared at Dion as if it was the first time he had truly seen him. He opened his thick wallet, pulled out a few bills, and held them out in a condescending manner.

"Here. That's enough, right?"

Dion stared at the money for a moment, then shook his head slowly. "Let me give it to you for free, sir. I'm happy to see a good car running perfectly again."

The man was stunned. He withdrew his money, mumbled something incoherently, then hurriedly got into his luxury car and drove away without a word.

Dion just chuckled, waving his hand casually at the dust left behind by the car.

In the corner of the neighbor's shop, several residents who were secretly watching smiled broadly.

The afternoon began to creep into night, and Dion's workshop slowly became quiet. The breeze brought the aroma of fried food from the small stall across the street — Bu Sri's stall, where residents usually gathered after work.

Dion locked his makeshift workshop, draped a dirty rag over his shoulder, then walked leisurely to the shop.

"Mr. Dion, come here, I just fried some tofu walik!" exclaimed Mrs. Sri, a plump middle-aged woman with a wide, warm smile.

"Ah, Mrs. Sri, the smell of fried tofu has been inviting since earlier," Dion replied with a small chuckle. He sat on a shabby plastic chair, joining several other residents who had already enjoyed warm tea and casual chat.

Among the residents, there was Mr. Karto — a motorcycle taxi driver — and Mbak Yuni, the owner of a small vegetable stall. They all knew Dion, although there was still something about the man that made them often exchange furtive glances.

"This Mr. Dion," said Mr. Karto, sipping his coffee while glancing at Dion with narrowed eyes full of curiosity, "his work is magical. An old car that looks like scrap metal, just a little touch makes it run smoothly."

Ms. Yuni laughed and added, "But he's... strange. He never wants to be paid much. Even though if he wanted to, he could be rich from the profits from his workshop."

Mrs. Sri added while arranging the plates of fried food, "There was one time, a kid from the village next door's car broke down in the middle of the night. Who came to push it alone? It was Mas Dion. Even though it was raining heavily."

Everyone chuckled, looking at Dion who just nodded casually, as if all the praise was not for him.

"It's not strange, Ma'am. It's normal. I just like the car running again," Dion answered lightly, without any heroic embellishments.

But that's what makes it... different.

Simple, never seeking attention, but his cool hands, and his calm smile, slowly build respect in the hearts of the people. There is something about Mas Dion that is hard to explain - as if he carries a calmness and hidden power that ordinary eyes cannot see.

Mr. Karto cleared his throat, then whispered to Mrs. Sri, loud enough so that Dion could hear, "Mr. Dion used to be an important person, right, ma'am? I'm really sure... It's impossible for an ordinary person to be like that."

Mrs. Sri just shrugged. "I don't know, sir. But even if he did... maybe he'd be happier here."

The afternoon sky turned gray. Heavy clouds hung over Salatiga, spreading a damp air that pressed on the chest. Soon, light rain began to fall, wetting the streets full of small holes and cracked asphalt.

Dion had just half-closed the door to his workshop when the sound of a coughing engine could be heard from down the street. A small, dark red car, clearly past its prime, limped up to the side... then died completely right in front of the workshop.

From inside the car, a young woman came out. Her long hair was a little messy from the rain, her face was sweet with an expression of confusion that she didn't try to hide. She patted the steering wheel, frustrated.

"Gosh... why did it break down, when it's raining like this..."

Dion stepped closer, pulling the hood of the small car with a light movement.

"Excuse me, Miss. What's wrong with the car?"

The woman looked up. Their eyes met — a look of innocence mixed with relief met a look of calm and determination.

"Eh... this, Mas... suddenly died. It won't turn on again," he said nervously, his voice soft but rushed.

Dion smiled faintly. "Can I see for a moment?"

Without a word, he began to examine the machine. His hands moved quickly — no hesitation, no searching. It took only a few seconds before he found the source of the problem.

"The battery water is almost empty, Miss. Also, the spark plug cable is a bit loose. It's simple," he said while fixing the cable connection.

The woman, who introduced herself as Arum , stood awkwardly while holding a small umbrella over their heads.

"You really understand, don't you..." muttered Arum in awe.

Dion chuckled softly. "A little at a time, Miss. He's a mechanic after all."

A few minutes later, Arum's car engine came back to life, roaring softly though it sounded tired. Arum cheered a little, her eyes sparkling.

"Sir, thank you so much! This... how much should I pay?"

She hurriedly took out a small wallet from her bag, looking awkward.

Dion shook his head casually. "No need, Miss. It's raining like this, helping people is a reward."

Arum looked confused for a moment, as if she was not yet used to such selfless kindness.

"Are you sure, sir?"

"Sure," Dion replied, folding the sleeves of his shabby shirt, his face remaining calm.

Arum stared at the simple mechanic in front of her, noticing how the rainwater wet his hair, forming small lines on his masculine face that looked both hard and warm.

There was something about Mas Dion that made Arum... want to know more.

"Then... tomorrow if I need service, can I come here again, Sir?" asked Arum with a shy smile.

Dion nodded. "My workshop door is always open, Miss."

As Arum drove by in her old car, Dion stood for a moment in the drizzle, watching the car disappear around the corner.

The rain was still falling. But somehow, the afternoon felt... a little warmer.

As the car drove away, Arum glanced at the rearview mirror. Dion's figure standing casually in front of his workshop was still faintly visible behind the curtain of rain.

"Strange..." he muttered softly.

"Why is that... it feels like I just met someone important."

He smiled to himself, shaking his head.

Maybe it was just because today had been hard — a job move to a small town, heavy rain, a broken down car — everything felt dramatic.

But there was something that stuck.

The way Mas Dion talked, the way he worked, the way he... didn't ask for anything in return. In the world that Arum knew, such kindness was rare.

Meanwhile, in the small workshop that was quiet again, Dion looked at the cloudy sky.

He took a deep breath, then went back inside, turning on the dim workshop lights.

It may rain.

Trouble may come. But for now, for today, his little world remains safe.

What he didn't realize, that afternoon... a fine thread had been pulled.

Connecting his fate with a girl who knew nothing about who he really was.

And maybe, slowly, that little world will change.

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