Mr. Ridho, observing the subtle shift in Grandfather Har's demeanour, began to suspect that something was being carefully concealed.
In a low, measured tone, he inquired, "Uncle Har, do you know this Yunus Adirjo?"
Grandfather Har drew a deep, weary breath, as though weighing the gravity of unearthing a chapter of his past long buried in silence.
At length, he exhaled slowly, a heavy, deliberate sigh, one that seemed to echo the burden he had borne in the quiet recesses of his heart for far too long.
When at last he spoke, his voice carried the weight of memories both distant and bittersweet.
"If the man in question truly is the Yunus Adirjo I speak of…" Grandfather Har began, his voice low and deliberate, before falling into a brief silence, as though he were sifting through the fragments of a past long buried.
"Then the bitterness of those memories will return," he continued at last, his tone trembling on the edge of emotion.
His eyes, once steady, now glimmered with an ache that time had failed to erase.
Havi, who until now had listened in silence, felt his curiosity swell beyond restraint.
"Return? What do you mean, Grandfather?" he asked, his voice edged with an urgency he could no longer suppress.
Grandfather Har inclined his head slightly, as if the weight of his recollections pressed heavy upon him.
"Aye, lad," he said softly, a fondness woven into the familiar address.
"This tale… it is one of sorrow, heavy and unyielding. I laid it to rest years ago, hoping, perhaps foolishly, that I might never speak of it again," he finished, his words fading into a quiet laden with the burden of memory.
Noticing the weight etched upon Grandfather Har's face, Mr Ridho rose quietly from his seat.
With a tenderness that spoke volumes, he guided the old man back into his chair, as though the simple gesture might ease the burden he carried.
"Uncle Har…" Mr Ridho's voice was low, touched with a warmth that sought to comfort.
"We are your family now. There is no need to bear this sorrow alone. Share it with us, perhaps, in speaking of it, the pain might lose some of its power," he said, his words gentle, yet steady with quiet determination.
A hush fell over the room, a deep and solemn silence, broken only by the faint, uneven rhythm of Grandfather Har's breathing.
Shadows of the past seemed to press in around him, their weight stirring wounds long hidden from sight.
The calm that usually softened his aged features had vanished, replaced by a sadness too heavy to conceal, a grief he had borne in silence for far too long.
He nodded at last, slow and deliberate, as though steeling himself against the tide of memory.
His eyes, bright with unshed tears, drifted towards a distant place only he could see.
Drawing a breath that trembled slightly, he began to speak.
In the quiet recesses of his heart, Grandfather Har had long since come to think of Havi and his parents as his own.
A bond that had deepened with the years, though he rarely gave voice to such feelings.
"This tale began some thirty years ago, perhaps longer," Grandfather Har spoke at last, his voice low and measured, as though the words themselves bore the weight of the years he had tried to forget.
"I can no longer recall the exact date or year. But one thing remains vivid in my memory, the day a young, guileless man came to my home seeking my daughter, Hanun Mulyani."
At the sound of that name, Havi felt a jolt of surprise. Never before had he heard it spoken.
Even in his previous life, before his reincarnation, no trace of such a story had ever reached him.
"Then that means…" Havi murmured, his mind swiftly working through the pieces of the puzzle.
"If the man you speak of truly is Yunus Adirjo, then… he was your son-in-law," he finished quietly, his voice tinged with caution, as though reluctant to fully embrace the conclusion forming before him.
Grandfather Har drew a long breath, his chest rising and falling with the effort of unearthing what had lain buried for so many years.
At last, he inclined his head, "Yes, lad. You have grasped it swiftly," he said, the warmth of his praise doing little to conceal the bitter undercurrent in his tone.
Across the room, Mr Ridho, Mrs Saras, and Diana, silent until now, sat in stunned stillness, their gazes meeting as they tried to make sense of this long-buried truth.
For Diana, the revelation struck like a thunderbolt.
In all her years, she had never once suspected such a secret lay hidden beneath Grandfather Har's quiet demeanour.
Even her uncle, Haryo Wibowo, renowned for prying into the private affairs of his rivals, could not have known the depths of this concealed past.
The room was cloaked in a profound silence.
Only the faint, rhythmic sound of Grandfather Har's breath disturbed the stillness, as though the ghosts of his past stirred quietly within him.
When he spoke again, his voice was low and weighted, each syllable drawn from the depths of memory long left untouched.
"The young man called himself Yunus Adirjo," he began, his gaze fixed on a point far beyond the room, as if the years had melted away, and he stood once more in the presence of that distant figure.
"At the time, he was nothing but a poor, unassuming youth, his life was one of modest means and quiet perseverance."
A heavy pause hung in the air as he drew in a slow, deliberate breath before pressing on.
"And yet… his kindness, the way he cared for my family, towards me, my wife, and most of all, my daughter Hanun, gradually found its way into our hearts," he continued, his voice trembling faintly beneath the weight of those recollections.
"In truth, my wife and I grew fond of him. Against our better judgment, perhaps, but there it was."
"Despite his humble beginnings, he was a man of rare determination, unyielding, industrious. And for that, we could not help but hold him in the highest regard."
Grandfather Har lowered his head for a moment, as though the weight of distant memories had settled heavily upon him.
"And then, one day," he began again, his voice softer now, tinged with a wistful echo.
"He came to our home, alone."
"With quiet determination, he declared his intention, to marry my daughter, Hanun."
A faint, bittersweet smile curved his lips, though the sadness woven beneath it was impossible to miss.
"Of course, my wife and I gave our blessing without hesitation," he said, his tone warm yet edged with a quiet ache.
"How could we refuse? Hanun's happiness was all that mattered to us. And in him, she had found a man who loved her with all his heart. What more could parents wish for?"
For a long moment, the room was steeped in silence.
Grandfather Har seemed lost to the pull of the past, while the others sat motionless, their breaths held in quiet reverence for the story unfolding before them.
He drew a long, measured breath before continuing his tale, as though sifting through the dust of memories long buried.
"It was on an ordinary day when Yunus's curiosity began to stir," he said, his voice low and contemplative.
"He wanted to know about my work, what it was, exactly, that occupied my days."
A shadow of reflection passed across his face as he gazed into the distance, his mind wandering to a time far removed from the present.
"I had never spoken of it to him before," he admitted, his tone touched with a quiet resignation.
"Not out of secrecy but some things, I believed, were best left unspoken."
For a moment, he fell silent, as though weighing each word before he gave it voice.
"Yet as a father-in-law, one who had entrusted my beloved daughter's happiness to him, I saw no harm in offering a glimpse into my world," he continued, his words gentle but laced with a trace of lingering doubt.
"I led him to my workshop and showed him the things I had crafted over the years, pieces fashioned by my own hands, each one bearing a fragment of my heart."
His eyes softened with the memory, though there was an unmistakable sadness shadowing his expression.
"I remember the look on his face when he first laid eyes on them, an expression of pure astonishment," he said, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips, though it did little to conceal the ache beneath.
"He asked me why I kept such precious things hidden away," Grandfather Har went on, his voice growing quieter, as if the words themselves tugged at an old wound.
"Why did I not sell them? Why let them gather dust?"
A faint, wistful smile curved his mouth, a smile touched by both affection and sorrow.
"I told him, simply, that it was nothing more than a hobby. I had no desire to sell a single piece," he murmured, as though speaking not only to them but to the memory of Yunus himself.
His gaze drifted downward, lost in thought, "Every object I crafted held a story, a meaning beyond its shape or form. How could I bear to part with them?"
The room seemed to grow heavier beneath the weight of his words.
Mr Ridho, Mrs Saras, Havi, and Diana exchanged quiet, uncertain glances, as if struggling to untangle the deeper truth hidden beneath the surface of his tale.
For Diana, in particular, the revelation felt like a key turning within a lock, a secret her family had never spoken of, one that her uncle Haryo Wibowo himself, with all his knowledge and cunning, might never have uncovered.