“What?!” Diana and Nuriana gasped in unison, their voices trembling with disbelief, as if the very air around them had turned to glass.
Havi smiled, but it was not the smile of someone recalling fond memories.
It was the quiet, mournful curve of lips burdened with sorrow too old for his years.
“Yes... in the life I lived before this one, neither of you ever married. Not once, even as the years crept grey into your hair,” he said, his voice a mere whisper, gentle, yet filled with the weight of a thousand unshed tears.
He turned to Diana first. His eyes lingered on her, soft with unspoken remorse.
“You... you married at the age of forty-eight. But it was not love that led you to the altar. It was obligation, resignation. A choice made not for your heart, but to silence the ache of waiting. And that... that was my fault.”
His words settled like ash on her shoulders. Diana said nothing.
Her fingers clenched faintly, betraying the quiet storm that had begun to stir within her.
Then Havi shifted his gaze to Nuriana, the sorrow in his eyes deepening.
“And you, Nuriana... yours was the lonelier path still.”
The room held its breath.
“By the time you reached fifty-five, you remained unmarried. You were wealthy, accomplished, admired. There was no shortage of suitors. And yet, one by one, you turned them away.”
He paused, then spoke again, his voice no louder than a thought.
“Not because you lacked beauty or grace. But because your heart had once been given to someone. Someone unworthy. Someone you could never forget, though he left you with nothing.”
His head lowered for a moment, as if in silent penance, then rose again, meeting her eyes with the clarity of one who has lived long enough to carry regrets not just across years, but across lifetimes.
Havi’s voice slipped into the room like a whisper of wind, gentle, almost imperceptible, yet it landed with the force of a blow.
Diana’s hand flew to her mouth. Nuriana’s breath caught in her throat.
And in that moment, the world seemed to still, too hushed, too fragile to bear the weight of what had just been spoken.
“Let it rest…” Havi murmured at last, his voice quiet but unwavering.
“I do not know whether you believe in this tale of mine, a tale of reincarnation,” he continued, his gaze lingering on each face before him, faces etched with a confusion that hovered somewhere between wonder and disbelief.
“But one thing is certain! This life, this second chance, I must live it differently,” he said, the words hanging in the air like a vow freshly sworn beneath solemn skies.
Grandfather Har, Mr Ridho, and Mrs Saras shared a glance aged eyes seeking clarity in the fog of a truth that defied reason.
For those who had walked long upon this earth, belief did not come easily.
Yet Nuriana and Diana sat still, the quiet strength of youth in their bearing.
They did not speak, but in their silence was the flicker of something unspoken, recognition, perhaps, or reluctant hope.
What Havi said sounded too strange to be trusted, and yet, too precise to be entirely dismissed.
Havi stood, each movement deliberate.
“Where are you going, Havi?” asked Nuriana, her voice barely above a whisper.
“To find them,” he replied, the words clipped but certain.
“Them? Who exactly?” Diana leaned forward, brow furrowed.
“Rofik and Teguh,” he said, without hesitation. “Who else would it be?”
Mrs Saras’s voice cut through the air, sharpened by worry, “Why would you seek them out? Are you truly considering returning to that path? To the life of a criminal?”
Havi exhaled deeply, steadying the storm that stirred within.
“No... not that,” he said gently. “Because I’ve seen where that road leads. And I would rather they leave it behind before it devours them whole.”
Grandfather Har narrowed his eyes, the old warrior in him stirred by curiosity, “What is it you want from them, lad?”
Havi turned to him, meeting his gaze with calm resolve, “Work,” he answered simply.
Mr Ridho blinked, “Work? For Rofik and Teguh?”
Havi nodded, firm, “Yes, Father. I need men to guard the percha latex harvest. And who better than those with reputations that keep even the boldest from mischief? Sometimes, those most feared make the most loyal sentinels.”
The room fell into silence once more. Havi’s words remained in the air, sharp, unexpected, undeniable.
Words that challenged long-held beliefs, and perhaps, quietly, began to change them.
"Are the two of them truly to be relied upon?" asked Mrs Saras, her voice trembling with unease, like leaves rustled by an uncertain wind.
"We shan’t know... until we try," Havi replied, his gaze unwavering, his tone laced with a quiet, immovable resolve.
"And if they refuse? Or worse still... turn violent?" Mr Ridho pressed, the timbre of his voice marked by the deep worry only a father could possess.
Havi offered a faint, knowing smile, then laughed briefly, not mockingly, but with the weary amusement of someone burdened by a truth others could scarcely grasp.
"They may try," he said softly, "but I know every movement, every flaw in their armour. They were my teachers, once. Every trick, every blow, I learnt from them."
"And though I wear a younger face now, do not forget, the soul within has bled, endured, and learned... from a life you’ll never remember."
At that, Grandfather Har rose from his seat. His back, though bent by age, straightened with the weight of purpose.
His eyes, clouded by time, held a glint of something firm and unshakable.
"Then go, lad," he said, voice firm yet laced with tenderness. "Find them. Reach them before the night swallows what light they still have left."
Havi dipped his head, murmuring, "Thank you, Grandfather Har," before turning toward the door.
But at the threshold, he paused. His hand resting lightly against the worn frame, he looked back over his shoulder.
"Grandfather," he said, voice low, almost like a secret, "your handiwork... you should move it here."
And with that, he stepped into the world beyond.
Behind him, silence reigned for a moment. Then Grandfather Har frowned, his brow folding into a map of memory and unease.
"Why would he say such a thing?" he murmured, almost to the room itself as if the answer might drift in with the wind, or echo from the corners of a future only one boy had glimpsed.