Mrs. Wulan
She stood quietly by the kitchen sink, hands submerged in soapy water, staring out the small window that looked over the quiet alley beside the shophouse. It was early—barely past 6 a.m.—but the silence of the morning gave her too much space to think.
Phuby hadn't returned yet. Neither had Hana.
She didn't need to look at the clock to feel the hours stretching. It had been past midnight when she woke up briefly and noticed Phuby's room still empty. The front door creaked once around two a.m. She didn't ask questions. She just prayed.
The sound of the water running over her hands was a distraction. A necessary one.
She trusted her son—but more than that, she loved him with a mother's ache that never truly rested. Ever since he was a boy, her Phuby had always been sensitive. He tried to act tough, sometimes aloof, but underneath the jokes and awkward laughter, he was someone who felt deeply. Maybe that's what scared her the most.
Because boys like that could be hurt the worst.
She thought of Hana—polite, graceful, sweet. The kind of girl who made eye contact when she spoke, who thanked her after every meal, who tried hard to pronounce "terima kasih" with the softest sincerity.
There was no doubt in her heart: Hana was special.
But this—this was not just some summer visit anymore. This was real.
She dried her hands, folded the towel, and walked slowly toward the prayer mat in her room. She had already prayed Fajr, but she sat again, letting her hands rest gently on her knees. She whispered a quiet doa—not just for protection, but for wisdom. For the kind of strength she needed to trust her son's choices, even when they frightened her.
Phuby's father had left a scar—one that never showed, but never faded. And though Luky had been patient, kind, and a good man, the wound in her heart sometimes reopened when she thought about how young Phuby had been when it all crumbled.
And yet now here was her son—standing taller, smiling more, talking with purpose in his voice. It was Hana who had brought that spark back into his eyes.
She smiled.
"Let him have this," she whispered.
Then she stood, stretched her back, and began preparing breakfast.
---
Om Luky
Luky sat in the garage area of the shophouse, where the scent of butter and flour from the bakery had long since settled into the walls. He leaned against an old metal shelf, one leg resting over the other, quietly scrolling through his phone while the electric fan hummed nearby.
He wasn't one for drama.
Never had been.
When he married Wulan, he understood what he was stepping into—he knew she came with her own burdens, her own stories, and a boy who had already seen too much pain for someone so young. He didn't try to be Phuby's father. He never expected that. He only ever wanted to be someone solid. Someone dependable.
And now that boy—his boy in every way that mattered—was growing into a man. A man in love.
Luky had watched it unfold slowly, like rain starting from a drizzle to a steady downpour. He saw it in the late-night streams, the sudden cleanliness of Phuby's desk, the nervous way he asked, "Om… do you think people can really know each other online?"
And now, that girl was here. Hana.
He'd never been one to speak a lot, but from the moment he met her, Luky had felt… at ease. She smiled often. She asked good questions. She listened when he talked. That meant something.
But what weighed on him this morning wasn't just Hana.
It was everything that came with her.
He'd overheard the conversation between Phuby and Hana the other night—on the rooftop, when voices carried more than people realized. He hadn't meant to listen. He was just locking the bakery gate when he heard them talking about family, about loss, about dreams.
And that's when it hit him.
They weren't kids playing at romance.
They were two broken people trying to build something whole.
And that scared him.
Because love like that—it was real. And real things could break harder.
Luky stood and walked over to the workbench where the bakery order list for the week lay scribbled in pencil. He made a note to pick up more baking chocolate, then paused.
He thought of Phuby's quiet determination lately. The way he walked with more purpose. The way he protected Hana without smothering her.
If this was what growth looked like… maybe it was time to stop worrying.
He smiled faintly and muttered, "He's doing alright."
And somehow, that was enough.
---
Hana's Father – Mr. Yamazaki
In a well-lit office in Hokkaido, a stern-faced man sat at a dark cherrywood desk, a cup of green tea untouched beside a stack of translated property contracts. Mr. Yamazaki had barely slept in days. The glowing screen of his laptop showed a message thread left unread since the day Hana departed:
Hana: Dad, I made it safely. Phuby and his family are really kind.
He hadn't replied.
He stared at the screen as if his silence could reverse the distance, pull his daughter back across the ocean, return her to the safety of the life he'd planned for her.
He wasn't cruel. He wasn't even unkind.
But he was scared.
When his wife, Aiko, had first told him about Hana's online relationship, he had scoffed. A stranger from Indonesia? A young man without a degree? Someone who lived above a bakery?
It felt… beneath her.
He didn't say these things out loud. Not directly. But his judgment had been loud enough in the silence between his words.
Yet the longer she was away, the more he realized: it wasn't just rebellion.
Hana wasn't a girl running from her life.
She was a woman walking toward something she believed in.
And now, she hadn't called in two days.
He opened his phone and looked at the contact photo of Hana smiling beside their dog, Kuro. He tapped "Call"—then stopped.
He sighed.
Then tapped "Message" instead.
Mr. Yamazaki: I hope you're well. I trust you, Hana. Please take care.
He stared at the blinking cursor.
Then hit send.
---
Hana's Mother – Mrs. Aiko Yamazaki
Aiko stood in the garden, watering the potted lilies Hana had planted two summers ago. It was early evening in Hokkaido, but the sky was still lit with gold, and the air held a hint of coming rain.
She missed her daughter every hour.
But Aiko had always believed in letting her children follow their hearts.
That was the way she'd been raised—encouraged to explore the world beyond the safe limits of expectation. And yet, when it was Hana who chose the unexpected, Aiko felt the tug of doubt like any mother would.
She remembered their final conversation before Hana boarded the plane.
"I love you, Mama," Hana had said. "Don't worry too much."
"I'll try," she replied.
Now, every day, she fought to keep that promise.
She checked Instagram often—quietly, privately—watching for Hana's updates. A selfie with local food, a photo of the shophouse rooftop at sunset, a blurry picture of a boy she knew was Phuby even without the tag.
Aiko hadn't shown those pictures to her husband yet.
Not because she was hiding them.
But because she wanted him to see when he was ready.
She smiled softly, then walked inside, sat at the small table near the window, and opened a notebook.
She began to write a letter—just in case.
---
Later That Evening
Mrs. Wulan's phone buzzed. It was a picture from Hana.
It showed the dining table at a small warung, two bowls of soto ayam, and Phuby's familiar hand in the corner of the frame holding a spoon mid-air.
The caption read: Dinner with my favorite person and the best sambal in Cirebon! ♥
Wulan smiled.
She replied: Tell him not to spill it on his shirt.
Hana sent a laughing emoji.
At the same moment, far across the sea, Aiko received a short video clip: Hana and Phuby walking in Trusmi, laughing, Phuby trying to pronounce "itadakimasu" and failing adorably.
She pressed her phone to her heart and closed her eyes.
Mr. Yamazaki stood behind her.
"Let me see," he said gently.
She turned the screen toward him.
He watched in silence.
Then, to her surprise, he smiled. Just a little.
---