Extend your hands, extend your hands, Let the horizon become our home. Even if the world falls silent, Your hand in mine will write our poem.

If the night comes to steal your sight, I will be the lantern in your path. If the river swallows every step, I will build a bridge with my broken past.

Rini knew the tune but had never felt it. She stood at a distance, watching him. His eyes were closed, his weathered palms facing upward as he sang: "Extend your hands, extend your hands— Let me touch the sky with my own hands. The path is long, the storm is wild, But I am not afraid, for you are by my side." Something cracked inside Rini’s chest. She had spent years believing that asking for help was weakness, that reaching out meant exposing a wound. But Siraj’s voice wasn’t pleading—it was declaring. He wasn’t begging for a handout; he was asking for a handshake with destiny .

One evening, a young woman named Rini stopped to listen. She was a student of English literature, sharp-tongued and weary of the world. Her hands were always stuffed deep into the pockets of her coat, as if protecting herself from the rain of life.

So extend your hands, extend your hands— The sky is not far anymore. Two empty palms, when they meet, Can hold the whole universe to the core.

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