The journey home unfolded in solemn quiet, broken only by the occasional sigh of the wind through the trees and the rhythmic crunch of their footsteps upon the dirt path.
Havi walked with measured strides, his thoughts tangled in the web of mysteries Grandfather Har had woven with his words.
The Percha grove lingered in his mind, its silent sentinels standing watch over secrets buried deep beneath their gnarled roots.
Beside him, the old man moved with the steady assurance of one long accustomed to the rhythm of the land.
Though his years had lined his face and bent his shoulders, there was still something unyielding about him, like the Percha itself, enduring through time and hardship.
The night air carried the distant scent of woodsmoke, a quiet promise of warmth awaiting them at the journey's end.
Soon, the familiar sight of home emerged from the shadows, a modest wooden house, its walls darkened with age, standing steadfast beneath the watchful gaze of the moon.
A single lantern glowed softly in the front room, casting golden light against the woven bamboo walls, a beacon against the quiet hush of the night.
Havi stepped onto the worn wooden porch and pushed the door open, the hinges groaning softly in protest.
The scent of tea and aged parchment greeted him, mingling with the lingering traces of the evening's meal.
Papers lay scattered upon the wooden table where he had left them, the oil lamp burning low, its flickering flame casting restless shadows upon the walls.
"Come in, Grandfather," he said, his voice low yet warm. "Sit by the fire. I'll prepare something to drink."
Grandfather Har inclined his head in quiet gratitude, stepping into the house with the careful reverence of one revisiting a place half-remembered in dreams.
He lowered himself onto the wooden bench near the hearth, his fingers resting upon the carved armrest as he took in the familiar space with weary eyes.
Before Havi could busy himself with the kettle, the soft tread of footsteps reached them.
A door creaked open, spilling a sliver of warm light into the room, and a moment later, his parents appeared, Ridho and Saras, both still clad in their simple home attire, their expressions tinged with surprise.
"Uncle Har?" Ridho's voice was thick with disbelief, his eyes widening as he took in the old man's presence.
Saras, too, hesitated for but a breath before a warm smile broke across her face, "What a surprise!" she exclaimed, stepping forward with open arms. "We never expected to see you here at this hour!"
Grandfather Har rose to his feet, offering them a nod of quiet acknowledgement, "Forgive the late hour," he murmured, his voice carrying the weight of years. "I had not intended to trouble you."
"Trouble?" Ridho let out a soft, disbelieving chuckle. "Uncle, you could never be trouble to us." His voice held the warmth of something deeper than mere politeness, something akin to the bonds of family.
For Ridho, Grandfather Har had long been more than an old family friend.
He was a figure of guidance, a presence that had once filled the void left by his own father, Sudirjo, who had departed this world too soon.
The two men had been comrades in their youth, bound by shared struggles and the unspoken understanding of those who had once toiled side by side.
To see Grandfather Har now, standing within the walls of his home, stirred something deep within Ridho's chest, something between reverence and nostalgia.
"You must stay the night," Saras insisted, already moving towards the kitchen to fetch something warm. "You cannot return so late. It is far too dark, and the roads are unforgiving at this hour."
Havi glanced at Grandfather Har, half-expecting him to decline out of habit.
But to his surprise, the old man merely exhaled, his gaze drifting briefly towards the flickering lanternlight.
"Perhaps," he said at last, his voice quieter now, "For tonight, I shall accept your kindness."
A smile ghosted across Ridho's lips, a trace of relief hidden in its corners, "Then it is settled," he said, his tone firm yet gentle. "Stay, Uncle. It has been far too long."
Grandfather Har did not reply at once. His gaze swept the humble home once more, lingering upon the wooden beams, the woven walls, the quiet warmth of the hearth. And then, finally, he nodded.
"Yes," he murmured, almost to himself. "Perhaps it has."
As the warmth of the fire settled into the room, casting flickering light across the wooden walls, Havi hesitated for a brief moment.
His gaze drifted to Grandfather Har, who sat quietly by the hearth, hands folded over his lap, eyes distant yet keen.
There was something in his silence, a quiet permission, an unspoken nod, that gave Havi the courage to speak.
He turned towards his parents, Ridho and Saras, who had settled across from him, their expressions expectant yet wary.
The shock of Grandfather Har's unexpected visit had yet to fade from their faces, but now, there was something else in their eyes, a silent understanding that whatever Havi had to say carried weight.
Taking a slow breath, he began.
"There's something I need to tell you," he said, his voice steady but laced with the gravity of what he was about to reveal. "Something I only learned today."
Ridho leaned forward slightly, his brows drawing together. Saras, her hands resting upon her lap, tilted her head, waiting.
Havi did not hold back. He spoke of the Percha grove, of the ancient trees standing in silent witness to time.
He told them of the swamp, no, not a mere swamp, but something built with purpose, crafted by hands that had long since faded into memory.
The work of Grandfather Har and Grandfather Sudirjo.
A place that was not just a stagnant body of water, but a living, breathing part of their history.
He told them of the water wheel he now wished to build, the vision that had taken root within him, not merely as an idea but as a calling.
He spoke of the possibilities it held, of the way it could harness the energy of the flowing streams, bringing life, light, and perhaps something more to their quiet village.
Ridho and Saras listened intently, their eyes widening with each revelation.
They had lived here all their lives, raised their children upon this very land, walked its paths, and tilled its soil. And yet, they had never known.
"You mean to tell me," Ridho finally spoke, his voice hoarse with disbelief, "That all this time… that swamp was not just a swamp?"
Havi shook his head, "No, Father. It was built. Created with purpose. By Grandfather Har and Grandfather Sudirjo."
Ridho's fingers tightened upon his knee. His father, Sudirjo, had passed long ago, leaving behind stories, wisdom, and lessons, but never had he spoken of this.
Never had he mentioned the work, the vision, the legacy buried beneath the waters and the roots of the Percha trees.
Saras exhaled slowly, her gaze shifting to Grandfather Har, who remained quiet, allowing the weight of the past to settle upon the present.
"And this waterwheel…" Saras murmured, her voice softer now, as if tasting the words for the first time. "You truly believe it can work?"
"I do," Havi said without hesitation. "But I need to understand more. I need to learn, to build it properly. This is something I have to do."
For a long moment, there was only silence. The fire crackled, the faint sound of the night wind brushing against the wooden walls.
Then, Ridho let out a breath, part sigh, part laughter, though tinged with disbelief, "Unbelievable," he muttered.
He turned towards Grandfather Har, his expression unreadable, "And you… you knew all this time, Uncle?"
Grandfather Har finally looked up, his eyes carrying the weight of decades, "Some things," he said, his voice even, "Are not meant to be spoken until the right time."
Ridho exhaled through his nose, shaking his head.
He looked back at Havi, studying his son's face, the quiet determination, the resolve set deep in his features. And then, slowly, he nodded.
"If this is what you wish to do," he said, his voice firmer now, "then I won't stop you."
Havi felt something shift inside him, a silent affirmation that he had not even realised he had been seeking.
"Just promise me one thing," Ridho added.
"If you are to walk this path, do not walk it blindly. Learn well. Be careful. And never forget the weight of what you are trying to build."
Havi met his father's gaze and, with a steady heart, nodded.
"I promise."