Grandfather Har drew in a long, measured breath, as though attempting to steady himself before unearthing a tale that grew heavier with each passing word.
His eyes, already damp with sorrow, became ever more clouded, as if the weight of old wounds had returned to assail him with merciless force.
"After I uttered those words…" His voice, scarcely more than a whisper, trembled in the hush of the room.
He swallowed hard, struggling to master his emotions, yet the anguish in his tone betrayed him.
"For the first time in my life, my wife and both my children defied me. Without a flicker of hesitation, they stood against me, their eyes filled with something I could scarcely comprehend."
"They looked upon me not as a father, not as a husband, but as though I were an obstacle, an inconvenience to be cast aside."
He shook his head, slowly, almost imperceptibly, as if even now, the memory remained beyond his grasp.
"I had always believed that my family would be my refuge, a place where I might find solace after a day's labour."
"But on that day, I glimpsed something I had never seen before. Their gazes, once warm and familiar, had turned cold. And in them, I saw greed."
Grandfather Har drew a deep, weary breath, as though striving to quell the tremor in his chest before pressing on.
"Yunus… He was the serpent in our midst. With honeyed words, he ensnared them, my wife, my children, coaxing them into believing that I should part with the labour of my hands, the work of a lifetime."
"He spoke of wealth beyond measure, of fortunes waiting to be seized, and that only a fool would let such an opportunity slip through his grasp."
His fingers curled into fists upon his knees, knuckles whitening, yet his gaze remained distant, fixed upon the floor as if seeking answers in the grain of the wood.
"At first, I refused to believe it. How could they, my own flesh and blood, even entertain such a notion?"
"But then I heard them, their voices, their reasoning, their gentle yet insistent urgings, each word laced with a sweetness that concealed the bitter truth beneath. And in that moment, I knew… They had already been ensnared by Yunus's web of deceit."
He drew himself upright, his voice barely more than a whisper, each word laden with quiet resignation.
"And that was not all… Yunus even swore he would divide the spoils evenly, half for himself, half for my family."
A wry smile ghosted across his lips, hollow and bereft of warmth, the kind of smile that belonged to a man well acquainted with disappointment.
"A bargain they considered fair… but not to me. To me, it was treachery in its purest form."
The room seemed to shrink beneath the weight of his confession, silence stretching taut like an unspoken lament.
No one spoke. No one stirred.
They merely sat in solemn vigil, bearing witness as Grandfather Har unravelled the sorrow he had borne alone for far too long.
Grandfather Har drew a long, shuddering breath, as though trying to steady the storm raging within his chest.
His eyes, clouded with sorrow, glistened, not merely from the weight of the memory, but from the lingering ache it had left behind, an ache that refused to fade with time.
"In that moment, I was furious, utterly furious. What were they thinking? These were my creations, the work of my own hands. I had poured my soul into them, dedicated a lifetime to perfecting each piece."
"I had dreamt of treasuring them in my twilight years, of looking upon them as the legacy of my labour, a testament to all I had endured."
"But to them… they were nothing more than objects to be sold. My years of toil, my pride, reduced to mere commodities, as if they held no meaning at all!" His voice trembled, thick with bitterness.
His gaze swept across Mr Ridho, Mrs Saras, Havi, and Diana, searching their faces for understanding, for some unspoken reassurance that his anger had not been in vain.
Yet none of them spoke. The silence stretched, weighty and oppressive.
Grandfather Har let out a weary sigh before continuing, his voice barely above a whisper.
"And do you know what my wife and children said to me when I refused?"
For a moment, he stared at the floor, his gaze hollow, as if the weight of his memories had pinned him there.
When he finally spoke, his voice was barely more than a whisper, fragile, wounded.
"My wife looked at me with sheer disappointment in her eyes and said, 'Be a husband and father who is of some use.'"
A bitter chuckle escaped his lips, devoid of warmth, devoid of joy, nothing more than a hollow echo of his pain.
"Firman, my son, merely sighed and said, 'You're old now. We have so many needs. How long will you persist in this stubborn idealism of yours?'"
Grandfather Har's hands curled into fists upon his knees, his knuckles taut and white, as though grasping at the fragments of his own dignity.
"But the cruellest words of all…" He hesitated, his breath faltering, before forcing himself to continue, his voice scarcely audible.
"…came from Hanun, my own daughter."
He straightened slightly, his eyes distant, fixed on some invisible spectre from his past, as though, in that moment, he could still see her standing before him, uttering the words that had shattered something within him.
"With a gaze colder than winter itself, without the slightest hesitation, she said, 'Just wait and see! When my husband becomes successful, I will cast you out of this house!'"
A heavy silence fell upon the room, thick and impenetrable, as though even the walls held their breath.
Diana's hands flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with disbelief.
Mr Ridho and Mrs Saras exchanged uneasy glances, while Havi clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms, his entire body rigid with restrained fury.
Grandfather Har remained seated, his expression frozen in a wistful, bitter smile, as if surrendering himself to the weight of memories too painful to bear.
The ghosts of the past had risen once more, and with them came the cruel reminder that the sharpest wounds were often inflicted by those dearest to the heart.
The room, steeped in solemn silence, trembled beneath the sudden force of Havi's voice.
"Grandfather Har!" he burst out, his tone quivering with barely restrained fury.
He shot to his feet, his breath ragged, fists clenched at his sides.
The weight of countless unspoken emotions bore down upon him, and in that moment, nothing else mattered.
Every gaze in the room fixed upon him, but he paid them no heed.
"Enough!" he pleaded, his voice raw, urgent. "Please! no more. Let it rest. Let it end here!"
His words hung in the air, heavy with anguish, trembling with an anger too great to contain.
His hands curled into trembling fists at his sides, as though barely restraining the storm brewing within him.
And then...
CRACK!
A deafening sound tore through the room.
The weighty teak table before him shuddered beneath the force of his strike, splintering down the middle before cleaving apart with an eerie finality.
Mr Ridho and Mrs Saras flinched, their breaths caught in their throats.
Diana's hands flew to her mouth, eyes wide with disbelief.
Yet Grandfather Har did not move. He simply watched Havi, his gaze a mixture of astonishment and something quieter, something almost sorrowful.
Havi stood motionless, his breath shallow yet heavy, his entire being taut with suppressed rage.
"I swear it!!!"
His voice, though low, carried a weight that seemed to anchor itself into the very air around them.
His fists clenched once more, trembling as if barely containing the storm that raged within him.
"If ever I lay eyes upon that wretched man, Yunus, I swear upon your name, Grandfather Har, I shall drag him before you with my own hands!"
"I will see him kneel at your feet, his pride shattered, his sins laid bare before the very man he wronged!"
His words, sharp as steel, reverberated through the room, igniting the silence with an intensity that made the very walls seem to hold their breath.
Then, his gaze darkened, his eyes narrowing into cold, merciless slits.
"And as for…" He gritted his teeth, his jaw tightening, voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "Your daughter…"
There was no hesitation, no faltering in his tone, only the chilling certainty of a man who had crossed the threshold of mere anger and stepped into something far more perilous.
His eyes gleamed, not just with fury, but with an iron-clad resolve.
A promise. A reckoning.
A vow that justice, his justice, would be served, no matter the cost.
Grandfather Har exhaled, a long, weary breath, as though releasing a burden too heavy to bear for another moment.
His hands, worn by time and hardship, rested upon his lap as he finally lifted his gaze.
"Thank you, lad. And to all of you…" His voice, though quiet, held the weight of a lifetime. "Thank you for listening to this sorrow that has long dwelled in my heart."
His eyes, clouded with memories both bitter and sweet, lingered upon each of them, his sorrow still present, yet touched, just faintly by something almost imperceptible.
Perhaps it was warmth. Or perhaps, it was simply relief.