The gentle hum of the rebana drums echoing in the corner of the grand marquee sounded like a swarm of bees in Widya's ears. Today should have been the happiest day of her life. The pristine white wedding dress she wore felt heavy—not from the fabric, but from the sudden, suffocating weight pressing against her chest.

Widya stared at her reflection in the large bedroom mirror, a space that now felt entirely foreign to her. She was a bride. Outside, the joyous laughter of wedding guests blended with the din of polite, loud small talk. Yet her mind remained entirely fixated on one person: Bapak.

Her life had never spent a single day apart from Bapak; he was the very reason Widya had stayed strong enough to survive until today.

Since early this morning, Bapak—Wahyu—had seemed different. He wore a hand-drawn batik shirt that had been ironed over and over until it possessed a flawless, glassy sheen. His whitening hair was neatly combed back, revealing the increasingly deep lines of age etched across his forehead. Bapak did not speak much, offering only a thin, gentle smile whenever someone praised him for successfully "handing over" his youngest daughter with a proper, dignified reception.

Widya stepped out, flanked by relatives as she made her way toward the wedding dais.

There, Bapak stood with his shoulders slightly hunched. Yet, something felt off. Bapak’s gaze did not sweep across the crowd of guests, nor did he chat with his colleagues. He simply stood, hands folded across his abdomen, staring off into an indeterminate space.

When Widya finally reached her father, she bowed to perform the traditional sungkem gesture of respect. Bapak’s rough hands—calloused from over a decade of backbreaking labor as an odd-job worker—felt freezing cold as they brushed against the crown of Widya’s head.

"Bapak," Widya whispered, her voice catching in her throat.

Wahyu drew in a long breath—an agonizingly deep inhalation, as though he were drinking down the very last reserves of oxygen left for him in this world. He guided Widya to her feet and pulled her into an embrace.

The hug felt entirely different from usual. Ordinarily, Bapak’s embraces were warm and fiercely protective; tonight, however, it felt like a permanent farewell. He pulled Widya tight against him, gripping her as though trying to piece back together the fragments of time they had shared over the past twenty years.

"Widya," Bapak’s voice was raspy, yet crystal clear. "You look so breathtaking. Aminah would be so proud to see you today."

Widya felt her shoulder grow damp. Was Bapak crying? No, Bapak was always strong. Bapak had been an unyielding cliff that refused to crumble when Ibu passed away. Yet when she looked up, all she saw was an utterly serene smile resting upon the man's face. A smile Widya had never witnessed before. It wasn’t merely polite; it was the smile of a soldier who had just completed his final mission and was now preparing to rest.

"Why are you talking about Ibu?" Widya asked, a cold, creeping dread unfurling in her chest.

Bapak did not answer. He merely brushed a lock of hair from Widya’s forehead, then patted her back twice. "Go on. Your husband is waiting. Do not look back, Widya. Chase your happiness."

A sharp pain lanced through Widya’s heart. An inexplicable premonition made the hairs on her arms stand on end. She studied Bapak’s face one last time—the lines that preserved a thousand memories of Ibu, of the fierce struggle to raise her all on his own, and of unvoiced promises that had always been faithfully kept.

"You'll come straight home after this, right?" Widya asked again, reluctant to pull away.

Wahyu nodded slowly. "Yes. Bapak is going home. Bapak has wanted to go home for a very long time."

The words echoed relentlessly inside Widya’s mind. Bapak is going home. Wasn't Bapak already home? Their house was barely a few hundred meters from the reception venue. Yet there was a finality woven into Bapak’s tone that constricted Widya’s chest.

The backing music swelled once more, calling the newlyweds to proceed with the ceremony. Widya had to move. She turned, descending the steps of the dais with heavy, leaden feet. She glanced back over her shoulder, and Bapak was still standing in the exact same spot, watching her with an unyielding smile, as though he were witnessing the final miracle of his life.

Beneath the noisy marquee, amidst the lavish splendor of a wedding reception that should have marked the pinnacle of joy, Widya felt an overwhelming, profound silence. To her, the gema of the wedding now sounded like a door slowly swinging shut, locking away the memories of the past while leaving behind a haunting question about what her father was truly hiding behind that gentle, serene smile.

Widya did not know that waiting for her on the wooden chair back home was destiny, arriving in a manner both agonizing and breathtakingly beautiful.