The cheerful, piercing notes of the rebana drums echoing beneath the grand marquee felt like an annoying buzz in Widya’s ears. This should have been the pinnacle of joy. People milled about in their finest gowns and suits, laughter bubbled up here and there, and the rich aroma of luxurious dishes drifted through the air. Yet to Widya, the entire scene felt like a film playing in slow motion.

An invisible layer of glass separated her from the buzzing crowd.

Widya sat upon the wedding dais, her fingers tightly interlaced with her husband's, Aris. Yet her focus wasn't on the guests queueing up to offer their congratulations. Her gaze remained locked onto a single spot in the corner of the dais: the place where Bapak—Wahyu—sat all by himself.

Bapak hadn't taken a seat in the main chairs beside them. Instead, he had chosen an old wooden chair he brought from home—the very chair he usually sat in while reading the morning newspaper or writing letters to Ibu.

And there he sat, his back straight, though his face... his face looked different.

Widya noticed how Bapak no longer joined in conversations with relatives who tried to speak with him. He simply nodded softly, offering an occasional thin smile before his gaze drifted back to Widya. Yet, it wasn't a normal gaze. It was the look of a man staring out toward the horizon, gazing at something invisible to everyone else.

"Widya, are you alright?" Aris whispered beside her, noticing that Widya’s hand felt as cold as ice.

Widya jolted. She turned to her husband, trying to force a smile, though her heart felt as though it were being wrung out. "I... I just feel a bit dizzy, Mas. There are too many people."

"Would you like us to rest for a moment?" Aris offered, his tone laced with concern.

"No, no need," Widya replied quickly, her eyes snapping back to Bapak. "I'm just... watching Bapak. Look, Mas. He hasn't taken his eyes off me for a single second."

Aris turned toward Wahyu and nodded gently. "He looks very happy, Widya. Perhaps he's reminiscing about the days when you were little."

Widya didn't answer. That creeping sense of unease—the bad premonition that had crawled along the back of her neck since early morning—had now crystallized into raw, tangible terror. She studied the smile on Bapak’s face. It was the purest, most unrestrained, and most serene smile Widya had ever witnessed in her entire life.

That smile held no sadness, nor any anxiety about the future. It was the smile of completion. The smile of someone who had just set down a crushing burden he had carried for decades.

Like someone finishing a long climb, Widya remembered Bapak saying the night before.

Suddenly, the world around Widya felt deathly quiet. The boisterous wedding music now hummed dully, like sound traveling through water. Widya felt she had to do something. She had to reach Bapak right now.

"Mas, I want to step down for a moment. I need to see Bapak," Widya said, her voice trembling.

"Wait, Widya. We're right in the middle of the procession," Aris gently held her back.

"Please, Mas," Widya turned, looking at Aris with eyes welling up with tears. "Something is wrong. I feel... I feel like Bapak will leave if I don't stop him now."

Seeing the genuine desperation and terror in his wife's eyes, Aris finally relented. The two of them slowly stepped down from the dais. Widya hurried forward, her long wedding gown occasionally snagging, though she didn't care. She kept her eyes fixed on Bapak.

Bapak was still there.

He didn't move. He remained seated in that wooden chair, looking at Widya with a gaze that was dimming yet filled with warmth.

When they were only a few steps away, Widya saw Bapak draw in a long breath. An agonizingly deep inhalation, as though he were gathering his final reserves of strength for a farewell. Bapak saw Widya approaching, and the smile on his face widened—a smile that pierced straight to the core of Widya’s soul.

"Bapak!" Widya cried out, her voice cracking.

Bapak didn't answer. He simply nodded once—a deeply tranquil nod. His lips parted slightly, making no sound, yet Widya could easily read the motion of those words:

Home.

Widya’s chest seized. She broke into a run and dropped to her knees before Bapak’s chair. She grabbed his rough, ice-cold hands. "Bapak, what's wrong? Why are you looking at me like that? Come on, come back to the dais with me! The family photos aren't finished yet!"

Bapak didn't return the pressure of Widya’s grip. His hands felt entirely limp within hers. Yet that smile—that devastatingly peaceful smile—still lingered upon his face. Bapak’s eyes narrowed slightly, gazing at Widya with profound love, as though he were trying to etch his daughter's face into his memory to carry across dimensions.

"Bapak, don't do this. I'm scared," Widya whispered, hot tears spilling over to drop onto her father’s lap. She began to weep openly, ignoring the guests starting to stare at them. "You promised to stay with me until the party was over! You promised!"

Aris knelt beside Widya, reaching out to check Bapak’s pulse. He froze for a fraction of a second, then looked at Widya with an unreadable expression—a mix of profound pity and awe.

"Widya..." Aris’s voice was raspy.

"No! Don't say it! Bapak is just tired, right? He just needs to rest!" Widya wailed amidst the wedding celebration that had abruptly plunged into silence. The music stopped. The crowd of guests began to whisper, their faces shifting from joyous cheer to stifled horror.

Yet, amid the inner chaos, Wahyu sat with utter serenity. He looked entirely free of suffering. He didn't look like a man in pain; he looked like a sailor who had finally dropped anchor in the harbor he had searched for over a dozen years.

Widya clutched her father’s knees, burying her face against them, begging him to open his eyes once more. She knew that beneath that enduring smile, her father had already departed. He hadn't left because of suffering; he had left because he had chosen his exact moment to rest.

Right on the day he ensured his daughter had found her happiness, Wahyu decided that his duty in this world was complete. He had guided Widya all the way to the gates of joy, and now, he had reached the gates of his own homecoming.

Beneath the twinkling party lights, amid the remnants of laughter that had curdled into sobs, Widya realized the most agonizing truth of all: her father had left her in a manner both breathtakingly beautiful and utterly shattering—precisely at the moment she was meant to be celebrating life, she was instead forced to mourn an eternal release.

That smile—that pure, relieved smile—was Bapak’s final message: I have kept my promise. Now, please let me go home.