As soon as he arrived at the apartment, Urip opened the door carefully. The living room light was still on. The smell of Siska's chicken soup—now cold—greeted him as he stepped inside.
Siska, sitting on the couch, turned to him immediately. "Gaby? You're home this late?"
From the kitchen, Lim Woo appeared, drying his hands with a towel. "Where have you been?"
Urip gave a small smile, then sat down on the chair across from them. "Just got the news. I'm leaving for Thailand tomorrow morning. Humanitarian mission. Dr. Han asked me to go."
Siska tensed. "Thailand? In conditions like this?" Her gaze searched her son's face as if looking for signs of exhaustion.
Lim Woo looked surprised as well. "That's a big decision. Are you sure you're up for it?"
Urip nodded slowly. "They've done all the checks. I'm ready, Dad, Mom. It's also a good opportunity to learn hands-on in the field."
Siska took a deep breath, then stood and sat beside him. "If you're determined, I won't stop you. But you have to promise me… eat enough, get enough rest, and if you notice anything strange with your heart—tell someone immediately."
Urip nodded. "I promise, Mom."
Lim Woo patted his shoulder. "We're proud of you, son. But we're also parents. Of course we worry."
"I understand, Dad," said Urip with a smile.
Siska looked at him for a long time. "You've been strange lately. But… you've also been more affectionate with me."
Urip gave a small smile. "Maybe... because I just realized how much you two mean to me."
Siska pulled him into a hug. There were no more words. Only a warm silence in the deepening night.
"Dad, check the message I sent you," said Urip.
Lim Woo opened his phone as he walked toward the kitchen. A new notification from Gaby popped up. He tapped it, and his eyes widened as he saw the reservation confirmation email.
"You booked this?" he asked, turning around.
"Mm-hmm," Urip answered casually, leaning back into the sofa. "Fine dining at La Belle Saison. Seven p.m., May 18th. Don't tell me you forgot what day that is."
Lim Woo scratched his head with a small laugh, slightly embarrassed. "Oh man… Yeah, I forgot." He quickly walked over to Urip and gave him a tight hug. "Thank you, son. This is a wonderful surprise."
Siska, watching from the kitchen, just smiled, her eyes slightly glistening. "You're becoming more like… I mean, more mature," she said, almost slipping.
Urip laughed as he hugged Lim Woo back. "Consider it a small gift before I leave."
"Keep making us proud," said Lim Woo, voice slightly trembling. "But don't be reckless. Take care of yourself, son."
Urip nodded. "I will, Dad. I promise."
That evening was quietly tender. No music, no candlelight, but the warmth in the living room was more than enough to celebrate a love that had endured for over two decades.
—
Morning had not fully broken in Seoul when Urip stood before the mirror, putting on a vest emblazoned with the hospital emblem and a badge reading "Volunteer Medical Team." It didn't say "Urip"—it said "Dr. Lim Gabriel," the identity he now carried.
Outside, the hospital van was waiting. Rachel came along to see him off at the airport, silently wishing he'd change his mind. But she knew—he had already made his decision.
At Incheon Airport, the atmosphere was somber. The medical team was focused, little chatter among them. They carried emergency kits, logistics, and medications. Some already wore masks.
Dr. Han arrived last, handing over boarding passes. "We'll fly straight to Chiang Mai, then take a military helicopter to the disaster zone in Mae Hong Son Province. The roads are still cut off."
Urip took the document and nodded. In his heart, he wondered, Gabriel, can you really bear to leave Mom and Dad… and Rachel? But maybe this is your way of making up for lost time.
When they landed in Thailand, the scent of damp earth and dust greeted them. The helicopter landed roughly on a grassy field not far from a hastily set-up refugee camp.
Hundreds of tents lined up. Crying children. Thin smoke from makeshift kitchens. Exhausted, panicked bodies.
A local volunteer greeted them. "Khop khun krub… Doctor! We really need help. Many people are injured, buried in collapsed buildings."
Urip immediately put on gloves. No more time to wonder who he was. He was just a doctor. Or… a young man repaying someone else's time.
And somewhere in Seoul, Rachel clutched her phone, staring at Urip's last message:
"Take care of yourself. If I make it back, we'll finish the music box story."
—
The emergency tent on the west side of the refugee camp was packed. Urip—or Lim Gabriel, to everyone else—was bandaging the wound of a young girl who had fallen from her collapsed kitchen.
Suddenly, an elderly man with a worn peci (Muslim cap) burst in, clutching the hand of a young volunteer. "Doktor! Tolong isteri saya... sakit... darah banyak... (Doctor! Please help my wife… bleeding badly…)," he said, panicked, in a mix of Malay and heavily accented Thai.
Most of the team was confused. They only understood basic Thai or English. But not Urip. His mind—carrying Gaby's language memories and his own Indonesian past—instantly grasped what the man was saying.
Urip stood, patting the man's arm. "Jangan khawatir, Pak. Tunjukkan jalannya. Saya bantu (Don't worry, sir. Show me the way. I'll help)."
The man's face immediately lit up with relief. He bowed quickly, then led the way, muttering in his Malay-Thai mix. They passed two tent blocks, arriving at a tattered tarp. Inside, a middle-aged woman lay pale and shivering, her abdomen soaked with blood—likely a miscarriage caused by falling debris.
Urip crouched down. "Sir, please hold the light. I'm going to check quickly."
And strangely, even though Urip spoke in Malay, the man seemed to understand. He translated Urip's instructions into Thai-Malay so nearby family could assist.
Within minutes, Urip managed to stop the bleeding temporarily, then called for an emergency stretcher. "Take her to the main post. Say it's from Dr. Lim. Emergency."
From that moment on, the elderly man stayed close to Urip. His name was Pak Yusuf, a resident of a Malay-Thai minority village in the mountains.
Every time a new patient arrived, Pak Yusuf quickly translated—from Malay to Thai, from Thai to Malay. Urip became the bridge between the Korean doctors and refugees who didn't understand a word of English.
"Doctor Lim..." Pak Yusuf said one night, as they sat on the ground after treating five patients in a row, "If God had sent a doctor like you to our village earlier, many lives could've been saved."
Urip gave a tired smile, looking up at the blurry stars in the Thai sky.
"Maybe it's not really me who was sent," he thought. "Maybe it's the young man whose body I'm borrowing. And if it's true God sent me here, I hope it's not just to save them—but to redeem what I once failed to save."