Urip stood on the edge of the sidewalk, staring at the row of buildings that once felt familiar. Now, everything looked foreign. The small grocery store where he used to buy instant noodles, the corner coffee stall, even the modest hotel that once stood proudly at the end of the alley—all gone, swallowed by time.
"The hotel used to be right here," he murmured, eyes scanning the street. "But now it's… a 24-hour minimarket?"
He let out a long sigh. Jakarta's air was still hot, just like before, but now it carried a different weight—a mix of nostalgia and estrangement.
"Where am I supposed to stay?" he whispered, half-panicked. "Are there still any budget hotels around here?"
His hand swiftly reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He opened a hotel booking app.
"Everything's from your phone now… Back then, you had to ask the receptionist one by one. Or leave your suitcase and walk around looking for a vacant room. Now it's just scroll and tap."
He found a few small lodgings still available around Tomang and Grogol. Nothing fancy, but clean and cheap enough.
"Not bad. Walking distance," he thought, clicking "Book." He exhaled with relief. But the unease didn't leave. His steps were slow, as if each turn of the corner held memories that refused to fully surface.
Behind him, Jakarta's traffic kept moving, indifferent to the old soul inside a young body, searching for a way home in a city that no longer felt like one.
—
After checking in, Urip walked slowly to his small room on the second floor. The narrow corridor was quiet, save for the hum of an old air conditioner in the distance. Once inside, he collapsed onto the bed, not caring that the sheets still smelled of cheap starch and the room felt damp. His eyes fixed on the ceiling—its peeling paint like memories beginning to resurface.
He reached for his phone. His fingers moved silently, only his heartbeat loud in his ears for reasons he couldn't explain. He typed slowly:
"Ma, did Grandpa have a younger brother named Martin Sulaiman Lim?"
He stared at the screen for a long moment, then hit send.
The screen stayed silent.
He laid the phone on his chest. A chest that now belonged to Gabriel Lim, but still held the heartbeat of Stefanus Urip Mulio. Outside, car horns and Jakarta's motorbike rumble crept through the poorly sealed window. But inside that small room, the silence was thick.
"Martin Sulaiman Lim…" he murmured.
Even that name—he had never heard it before. Not from Siska. Not from anyone.
"If Mama never told me... then what is she hiding?"
Sleep began to pull at his body, but his mind kept turning. Michelle's face—cheerful, innocent, eager—kept flashing in his head. But that wasn't what truly disturbed him. What unsettled him was something vague.
"If Michelle is Martin's granddaughter… and Martin was Grandpa's younger brother… then…"
He shut his eyes, but the question didn't rest with him.
Gaby threw his phone onto the bed. The thin device landed with a soft thud on the white hotel sheets, but the anger behind the gesture was unmistakable.
Urip, watching from within his borrowed consciousness, turned instinctively. "Gaby's mad at his mom… mad enough to throw his phone?" he wondered.
He could feel Gaby's chest rising and falling, breath heavy—not from exhaustion, but from disappointment. Their eyes—or rather, Gaby's—were fixed on the ceiling, where peeling paint failed to hide the growing shadow of unanswered questions.
"Why didn't Mama ever say anything about Martin Sulaiman? Am I not worthy of knowing?"
Gaby said nothing aloud. But inside, Urip heard the echo:
"Is she hiding something? Or just scared of the past resurfacing?"
Suddenly, the body sat upright again. Hands reached for the phone, opening the chat thread with Siska. His thumb hovered over the keyboard.
"Okay, Ma… I'm serious. Who is Martin Sulaiman Lim? And why have I never heard a single story about him?"
Send.
This time, Gaby didn't throw the phone. He stared at the screen, waiting—not just for an answer, but for the truth. Something that had perhaps been buried for far too long.
—
The phone vibrated again. A message from Siska.
"I'll explain everything once you're back in Seoul. Don't stay in Jakarta too long."
Gaby scoffed. His eyes narrowed. And then—THUMP! THUMP!—he stomped his foot against the hard hotel floor like a kid denied an ice cream cone.
Urip—hitchhiking in his body—couldn't help but laugh.
"You're spoiled, huh, Gaby?" he teased silently. "You really are acting like a first grader who got told 'no playground today.'"
The body—Gaby's—didn't respond with words, of course. But his heavy breathing and red cheeks said enough. He did not like being ignored. Especially not by his own mother.
"This is about identity, about family! And she wants me to wait until I'm back in Seoul?!" Gaby fumed inside—his thoughts loud enough for Urip to hear.
"Siska's always been stubborn," Urip murmured. "But if she's keeping Martin's name this tightly under wraps... there must be a serious reason."
Gaby's body rose from the bed again. He paced the room, then sat down, restless.
Urip—who once lived a poor, quiet life—could never have imagined being trapped inside the body of a Lim heir, tangled in a family drama worthy of a primetime soap opera.
"Your life's one giant mystery, Gaby," Urip whispered inside. "And now… it's my mystery too."
—
"Tomorrow, I'll go to Kelapa Gading," Urip thought, staring at the ceiling. "But that house was burned down years ago... Or maybe it's been sold. Gabriel and Siska are Singapore citizens now—they probably don't even own property here anymore."
"I've never been to Kelapa Gading!" Gaby's voice interrupted in his mind. "Whenever I came to Jakarta, I only went to the temple. Let's go—I want to see Grandpa's house."
Urip chuckled. "God, I'm like a sci-fi character… talking to a voice inside my own head."
He shook his head and snorted. "If anyone hears me, they'd think I'm nuts... But hey, this is my life now."
—
Urip dragged his suitcase to the hotel front desk and handed over his room card.
"Excuse me, what's the best way to get to Kelapa Gading?" he asked uncertainly. His voice was quiet, as if afraid it sounded too old-fashioned. He still remembered there used to be a direct bus—whether it still existed, he didn't know.
The crew-cut receptionist turned with a friendly smile. "Just take the TJ, sir. TransJakarta. Walk a bit that way, cross to the center of the road, the bus stop's right there."
"TJ?" Urip repeated, frowning.
"Oh, sorry... You're from overseas, yeah?" The receptionist grinned. "You'll need to buy an e-money card from the minimarket first. It's a prepaid card—you just tap it at the gate."
"The bus stop's in the middle of the road? You pay with a card?"
"Yes, no more cash payments. But don't worry, there's staff at the stop who can help you out."
Urip nodded awkwardly. "Oh... okay then. Thanks."
He stepped outside, squinting against Jakarta's harsh morning sun. The streets were busy, but everything felt unfamiliar. The sidewalks were neater, the bus stops looked like sleek glass boxes.
"I really feel like a tourist from some village…" he muttered, adjusting his sling bag. "Jakarta… you've changed a lot."
His hand checked his wallet for rupiah, then he began walking slowly toward the nearest minimarket—ready to embark on a small adventure through his old hometown, which now felt like a whole new city.