The evening air in Bandung was cooler than Phuby remembered, laced with the soft scent of pine and damp stone from the gardens surrounding his grandfather's old house in Dago. After their visit to the cemetery earlier that day, something deep inside him had shifted. A quiet reverence for his roots settled within him, like dust on an untouched heirloom.
That night, after the twins had gone to sleep in the guest room and Hana was relaxing with Mrs. Wulan, Phuby stepped outside onto the small patio. The city lights glowed faintly below the hills, and the sounds of crickets filled the air like a soft lullaby. His thoughts wandered back to his father—memories both sharp and blurred: the sound of his laughter, his rough hands helping him with schoolwork, and the day he left.
The house still stood, weathered but standing strong, maintained by the caretaker his extended family hired. The small garden where his father used to sit with a thermos of coffee was still there. The same wind rustled the trees, the same path led to the edge of the view. His father's world, now his to revisit—and understand.
Inside, Mrs. Wulan and Om Luky sat with Hana.
"I forgot how much colder Bandung is," Hana said with a slight shiver, sipping her ginger tea.
Mrs. Wulan chuckled. "Wait until the rains hit. That's the true Bandung."
Om Luky, who had been telling a story about his time living in Makassar, paused. "You know, this city feels very different from Cirebon. But the air is fresh. Reminds me of Bukittinggi."
Hana tilted her head. "You're originally from Padang, right?"
He nodded. "Yes. Then I lived in Makassar for work, then Jakarta for a bit before meeting your mom. Life kept moving. And somehow, I ended up loving the quiet of Cirebon."
"It's funny," Hana said, glancing toward the room where the twins slept, "how all these places—Bandung, Cirebon, Tokyo, Uji—they've become pieces of us now."
Mrs. Wulan reached out to squeeze her hand gently. "You and Phuby are making something beautiful from those pieces."
The next day, they visited Phuby's old elementary school, now repainted and a bit more modern, and the neighborhood warung where he used to sneak snacks after class. Some of the older neighbors recognized Mrs. Wulan and waved, offering knowing smiles and bits of gossip from decades past. They had never expected little Phuby to return married—with children, no less.
At every stop, Haru and Yui became small celebrities, their bright eyes and giggles drawing admiration and playful pinches on the cheek.
In the evening, they returned to Cirebon, greeted by the familiar scent of Toko Kue Palm Sari. Mrs. Wulan had begun quietly expanding the menu with more family-friendly items, and the shophouse itself looked better than ever—modern on the inside, but retaining the warmth of its humble roots.
Phuby sat in the back office later that night, running his hand along the old wooden desk his grandfather had once used when the shop was first built.
"I think," he said as Hana joined him, "we should renovate this part of the building too. Keep the spirit, but make it easier to manage long distance."
"Like the farmhouse?"
He nodded. "Maybe even hire someone to manage online orders from here. It's time Palm Sari had a digital wing."
Hana laughed. "You really can't sit still, can you?"
"Nope," he said, wrapping an arm around her waist. "But that's because I want everyone to keep moving forward. I don't want to forget any part of our story—even the hard parts."
"Then we should come back every year," she said. "Let the twins know where their blood runs deep."
"They'll grow up knowing Japan, yes. But I want them to walk these streets and feel something stir inside too."
As the night settled, the couple stood silently in the heart of the family shop. They had walked so far from where they started. The bakery, the house in Dago, the quiet farm in Uji, and now—more dreams waiting to bloom.
And in the back of Phuby's mind, a faint flicker from the system still remained—dormant, waiting.
But for now, the only mission that mattered was living fully, where past and future met.