The living room felt tighter than usual. That afternoon, amber sunlight slipped shyly through the gaps in the window, illuminating a young man sitting with a straight back on their old teakwood chair. His name was Aris—a humble fellow dressed in a neat shirt, who had come to ask for Widya’s hand in marriage.

Widya sat beside him, her eyes occasionally darting toward her father, Wahyu, who sat quietly in the opposite chair. Widya looked nervous, her fingers interlaced tightly over her lap.

Wahyu took a slow sip of his warm tea. He remained silent for a long moment. His sharp eyes, accustomed to weathering the harshness of the world, were now dissecting the young man before him. He wasn't judging the price of Aris’s watch or the brand of his shoes; rather, he was weighing the steady gaze in Aris's eyes and the way the young man carried himself.

"So, Aris," Wahyu began, his voice calm yet heavy. "What makes you feel worthy enough to walk beside my daughter?"

Aris paused for a moment, deep in thought. He glanced briefly at Widya before meeting Wahyu’s gaze dead-on. "Pak Wahyu, I don’t have a wealth of riches to promise. But I have commitment. I’ve seen how Pak Wahyu raised Widya with extraordinary love. I simply want to be the person who continues your work in keeping Widya smiling."

Wahyu didn't smile right away. Instead, he gently set his teacup back down onto the table. The sharp clink of porcelain meeting wood rang out loudly in the silent room.

"Keeping her smiling is easy when the weather is clear, son," Wahyu replied. "But Widya is a girl with a tender heart. She lost her mother when she was far too young. She carries a hollow in her chest that may never truly close up. Are you ready for that?"

Aris nodded firmly. "I am ready, Pak. I won't try to fill that void in my own way. I will simply be there, listening, whenever she feels lonely."

The conversation pressed on. Wahyu asked about principles of life, how Aris handled anger, and how he viewed the responsibilities of a head of household. Every single answer Aris gave felt sincere—void of arrogance or rehearsed, memorized talking points.

After Aris bade them farewell and headed home, Widya mustered the courage to approach her father. "Bapak... what do you think?"

Wahyu offered a faint smile. "He’s a good young man, Widya. But Bapak needs to make sure of one more thing."

Over the following days, Wahyu initiated his silent "investigation." He didn't hire a private detective, of course. He simply visited Aris’s workplace—a small mechanical workshop—posing as a customer looking to get his bicycle repaired.

From behind the visor of his helmet, Wahyu watched. He observed how Aris treated his coworkers—with respect, never elevating himself above them. He watched how endlessly patient Aris was when dealing with fussy customer complaints, without showing a shred of annoyance.

One afternoon, Wahyu sat at a coffee stall across from the workshop, purposely striking up a conversation with the stall owner.

"Mas Aris is a righteous young man, Pak," the owner remarked when Wahyu asked about him. "He never gets mixed up in trouble. He always saves his wages for his mother and for payments on a small house. He’s honest, never taking unfair advantage of his customers."

Hearing that, something eased inside Wahyu’s chest. Returning home that evening, Wahyu sat out on the front porch, gazing up at the vast blue sky.

Aminah, he whispered in his heart. I think I've found him. Someone who can look after Widya when I'm no longer here.

That night, while Widya was busy preparing dinner, Wahyu called out to her.

"Widya, come here for a moment."

Widya approached her father. "Yes, Pak?"

Wahyu took his daughter’s hands in his. Wahyu’s skin felt rough and calloused, contrasting sharply with Widya’s smooth hands. "Aris... he is a good man. Bapak has seen how he works, how he treats others. Bapak has no objections if you choose him."

Widya’s eyes welled with tears. She immediately wrapped her arms around her father. "Bapak really agrees?"

"Of course," Wahyu answered, gently rubbing his daughter’s back. "Bapak’s duty won't last much longer, Widya. Bapak wants to make sure that before Bapak truly leaves, you are in the right hands. Bapak doesn't want you to be lonely."

"What are you saying, Pak? Don't talk like that," Widya protested, her voice raspy.

Wahyu let out a small chuckle, though an ache flared in his chest—a pain that had begun visiting him more frequently lately. "Bapak is just preparing. The world keeps turning, and Bapak simply wants to make sure that when Bapak isn't here, someone can hold your hand just as tightly as Bapak held yours when you were little."

Widya wept against her father’s shoulder. Wahyu allowed her to. He knew his daughter was beginning to sense the changes in him. Yet, Wahyu didn't want to burden Widya with sorrow before her time.

"There, there. Don't cry. Your cooking will burn," Wahyu teased gently.

Widya pulled back, smiling sheepishly. "Oh, Bapak!"

Wahyu settled back into his wooden chair. He watched as Widya returned to the kitchen with a light, easy step. He felt his mission drawing close to the finish line. He had investigated his daughter's future, ensuring no thorns would tear at her feet.

Wahyu closed his eyes, picturing Aminah smiling proudly up above. He felt a profound sense of peace. He was no longer afraid of loneliness, because he knew that very soon, he would fulfill the vow he had sworn over his wife's headstone all those years ago. He would let Widya go with a smile, and when that moment arrived, he would be ready to return to the embrace that had been waiting for him for far too long.

From the kitchen came the faint, cheerful sound of Widya humming. To Wahyu, that sound was the most beautiful melody in the world. He closed his eyes, letting tranquility wash over his weary, battle-worn soul. This chapter was nearly complete, and he had played his part to the absolute best of his ability.