Grandfather Har drew a long, heavy breath, deeper and more burdened than before.
It was as though he were bracing himself to unveil a part of the story long confined to the recesses of his memory.
His voice softened as he resumed, "When I told Yunus that I had no intention of selling my crafts, I noticed a subtle shift in his expression."
"At first, he smiled, as though he accepted my answer with grace, but I knew, deep down, there was a disappointment he could not quite conceal," he murmured, his gaze drifting to a distant past only he could see.
"I have walked this earth for many years," he continued, his voice weighed with the wisdom of age.
"I know how to read the faces of others, and the smile Yunus offered me that day… it was far from genuine."
"Outwardly, he appeared cordial and at ease, but beneath the surface, I sensed a shadow, an unease he sought to suppress."
"There was an anger simmering beneath his calm exterior, though I could not yet fathom its cause."
For a moment, Grandfather Har fell into a heavy silence.
His expression grew taut, the lines on his face hardening, a clear sign that the next part of his story was neither easy to remember nor simple to speak aloud.
"Until one day…" he began, but his words faltered, hanging in the air as though the memory itself was too burdensome to give voice to.
A hush settled over the room. Only the measured, weighty rhythm of his breathing broke the stillness, while Mr Ridho, Mrs Saras, Havi, and Diana waited in patient quietude, their eyes fixed upon him, sensing, perhaps, how deeply the scars of the past were etched into his heart.
He drew a breath, long and deliberate as if the act itself might steady the emotions stirring just beneath the surface.
When at last he spoke again, his voice was softer, quivering ever so slightly beneath the weight of what was left unsaid.
"It was on a day much like any other," he began, though his voice had taken on a distant, weighted quality.
"By chance, I overheard a conversation between Yunus and my wife, Wulan." His gaze drifted beyond the room, unfocused, as if the years had folded back upon themselves.
"Hanun was there and so my son, Firman. They were all gathered in the sitting room, their voices low but clear enough. None of them knew I stood just beyond the door, listening to every word they said."
He fell silent for a moment, drawing in a long, measured breath, as though the memory itself weighed heavily on his chest.
"Yunus told them my handiwork was worth a fortune, hundreds of millions, perhaps even billions if placed in the right hands," he continued, his voice thick with something unspoken.
"He spoke of collectors, wealthy ones, who would pay dearly for craftsmanship as rare and refined as mine."
A shadow flickered across his face, "And in his voice… there was a hunger."
Grandfather Har's smile was tinged with bitterness, a smile that spoke of wounds too deep for words.
"My wife, Hanun, and Firman were, as you might expect, taken aback. They did not accept Yunus's claims without question," he began, his voice low and measured, though the shadow in his eyes betrayed the sorrow that lay beneath.
"But Yunus was nothing if not persistent."
His tone grew heavier, as though the weight of memory pressed upon him, "With unshakable certainty, he assured them his words were true, that my craftsmanship was no mere pastime, but a prize of immeasurable worth. A treasure that, if sold, could transform all our lives."
He drew a long, tremulous breath, a sigh burdened by the weight of years gone by.
"In time, after much persuasion, they began to believe him. Slowly but surely, doubt gave way to conviction, and Yunus's promises became, to their minds, undeniable truth," he continued, his voice trailing off into a quiet, pained murmur.
His head bowed, and his gnarled hands curled into tight fists upon his knees.
"And it was in that moment," he said, his words scarcely louder than a whisper.
"That I felt the first stirrings of a bitter disappointment. Disappointment in the very people I had held dearest."
A heavy silence followed, as though the air itself mourned with him.
"It is a wound..." he added, after a pause, "...that, even now, refuses to heal."
Grandfather Har's eyes grew misty, his voice trembling faintly as he prepared to unveil the next chapter of his story, a chapter etched deep into the recesses of his heart.
"It was not long after that conversation," he began, his tone low and deliberate.
"My wife, together with Hanun and Firman, came to my workshop. Until that day, they had never once set foot in it."
He paused for a moment, drawing in a slow, measured breath, as though the weight of the memory pressed heavily upon his chest.
"Their sudden appearance took me by surprise. I asked them, 'What brings you here?' for they had never shown the slightest interest in my craft before," he continued, his words tinged with an edge of quiet disbelief.
"They replied with an air of casualness, claiming they merely wished to look around. But I know the ways of people, I could sense when something was amiss," his voice softened, though a trace of bitterness lingered beneath.
"Behind their pleasant smiles, I glimpsed something else, something far less innocent."
"No matter how carefully they tried to conceal it, I could see the glint of greed in their eyes, sharp and unmistakable."
Grandfather Har lowered his head, allowing the heavy silence to stretch between them before he spoke again.
"And then, in the midst of our conversation, my wife mentioned, almost in passing, that Yunus was planning to start a business."
"What sort of business, she did not say. There were no details, no explanations, just a simple, offhand remark," he said, his voice laced with a quiet bitterness that lingered beneath the surface.
"I did not think much of it at the time. I merely nodded and said, 'I hope Yunus finds great success.' And I meant every word. I wanted nothing more than to see him prosper."
A faint, bitter smile flickered across his face, a smile heavy with the memory of his own innocence.
But beneath the warmth of his well-wishes, there was something he had failed to notice.
"What escaped me then," he continued, his tone softer now, weighed down by the burden of hindsight.
"Were the glances my wife and children exchanged. Quick, sharp glances, fleeting, but heavy with meaning."
He paused, his breath catching slightly before he went on.
"Had I been more discerning, more willing to see beyond their words, perhaps I would have understood."
"Perhaps I would have realised, even then, that something far more troubling lay beneath the surface."
Grandfather Har bowed his head for a moment, allowing silence to stretch across the room like a shadow.
A single tear traced a slow path down his lined face, the weight of old memories pressing heavily upon him.
The past, once locked away, was stirring now, raw and unyielding, refusing to be silenced any longer.
Mr Ridho, Mrs Saras, Havi, and Diana sat in stillness, their breaths shallow as they absorbed the gravity of the old man's words.
No one dared to speak. The air itself seemed to thicken, heavy with the burden of a truth long left unspoken.
With quiet deliberation, Havi shifted closer, lowering himself into the seat beside Grandfather Har.
His hand, warm and steady, came to rest gently on the old man's shoulder, a silent offering of comfort against the tide of sorrow threatening to overwhelm him.
"Grandfather Har… if this is too painful, perhaps it is best to stop here," Havi said softly, his voice a soothing balm against the ache that lingered in the air.
Yet the old man shook his head, a small, fragile gesture that held the weight of decades.
A faint smile curved his lips, but it was a smile devoid of warmth, shadowed by an anguish too profound to conceal.
"No, lad," he murmured, his voice low and rough with emotion. "I must go on. There is something you need to know… something I have carried alone for far too long."
The words hung between them, heavy and irrevocable.
For a fleeting moment, the room seemed to tremble beneath the weight of his confession.
Havi said nothing. He understood that some wounds, no matter how deeply buried, refuse to fade.
But he also sensed that Grandfather Har's heart would find no peace until his story was told.
After a moment, Havi met the old man's gaze, his expression calm, his voice quiet but resolute.
"If there is a part of your story you cannot bring yourself to speak, then let it remain unspoken," he said. "We will understand."
For the briefest of moments, something in Grandfather Har's face softened, a flicker of gratitude passing through the weariness in his eyes.
It was a fragile comfort, but comfort nonetheless.
He inclined his head in a slow, measured nod.
"Thank you, lad," he whispered, his voice fraying at the edges. "But there are truths I cannot take with me to the grave. You must hear them. All of them."
A deep breath trembled through his chest as he gathered the strength to continue, the echoes of the past drawing him further into the heart of a story long hidden.
A story etched with loss, betrayal, and the kind of sorrow that refuses to be forgotten.