Siska sat in silence, the small music box still resting on her lap. A lingering question nudged at her heart: "How did Gaby know about Panis Angelicus and the edelweiss? She never told anyone…"
Panis Angelicus had always been a special song to her. It reminded her of those days at the Jakarta cathedral, back in 1996. That time when she and Urip arrived late for mass and had to fight over a seat. The hymn had filled the space, offering calm even as they rushed in. It wasn't just a song—it was a sweet memory etched deep within her.
And the edelweiss. The eternal flower that symbolized perseverance and everlasting love. Urip once told her that the Edelweiss alpinus, the original kind from the Alps, was different from those found in Indonesia. Among all the native varieties, the rarest and most unique was from Mount Ciremai. Urip said that flower was special—just like their love, which had endured, quietly, through trials and time.
Siska exhaled slowly. All of this felt like an invisible bridge connecting the past, the present, and the future. Gaby, in an unexpected way, had brought to the surface things long buried in the quietest corners of her heart.
"Was this Gaby's way of saying 'thank you'… and 'I love you'?" she wondered softly, her eyes misty. Behind that small gift lay a depth of meaning and story she couldn't yet fully grasp.
She looked again at the music box, letting Panis Angelicus play gently, comforting and strengthening her. It was more than a gift—it was a message. A quiet bond tying them together, one not severed by distance, time, or even life itself.
When Siska met Lim Woo, she had shared much of her darkness—riots that tore the city apart, the trauma of sexual assault that nearly stole everything from her, her mother's passing, and the miscarriage she could never forget. But there was one thing she had never told Lim Woo—or anyone. The father of the baby who never got the chance to live. And the sweet memories attached to that hymn and that flower.
The Polaroid photo Urip once took in a field of Ciremai's edelweiss—the one silent witness of their shared past—had burned with their home in Kelapa Gading in 1998. The memory felt like it had vanished into ash and smoke, leaving an irreplaceable void in her heart.
She had kept that part of her life sealed away, choosing only to share the pain that was undeniable and loud. The soft beauty and hidden sweetness of her past… she kept to herself. A treasure too sacred to name, too personal to expose.
—
"Ah, if only I could go back to Singapore..." Urip muttered to himself, his gaze lost through the airport window as they waited for the shuttle.
But he frowned quickly. "Wait, why Singapore? I don't even know anyone there… Huh? Was that Gaby missing Singapore?"
The thought felt like brushing up against the edge of a memory that wasn't entirely his. He fell silent, caught in the quiet heartbeat of a longing that didn't belong to him.
Beside him, Dr. Han glanced over, studying Gaby—or rather, the body that now housed Urip—with curiosity.
"You okay?" Dr. Han asked gently, though there was a subtle sharpness in her tone.
Urip—now Gaby—was startled, then offered a sheepish smile.
"Just… missing Grandpa," he blurted out before he could filter the words. And the moment he said it, his own heart questioned: 'Wait, Grandpa? Who? I don't have a grandfather. Did Gaby mean... But wasn't Gabriel Sulaiman Lim already gone when Gaby was a baby?'
"His columbarium's in Singapore," he added quietly, the words spilling out without his control—guided by memories that weren't fully his. "My mom's dad…"
Dr. Han gave a slow nod. "It's just three hours from here. If you want to go, take the time. After a mission like this, you need space."
"Really?" he asked reflexively.
"Of course. As long as it doesn't interfere with your rotation schedule. Submit the request—I'll sign off."
Urip nodded. But behind his gaze, the question lingered: "Is this truly Gaby's voice I'm feeling? Or are the memories so deeply rooted that I'm starting to feel them as mine?"
He looked up at the darkening sky. And for a brief moment, he wasn't sure who exactly wanted to go back to Singapore—Gaby, or himself.
"Thank you, Dr. Han!" Urip blurted, almost bowing in gratitude. Dr. Han just gave a brief nod and a faint smile before walking off with the other volunteers heading to rest.
Urip stood alone under the gently overcast sky of Thailand. He exhaled, then pulled out his phone. His fingers moved instinctively, opening a travel app like it was second nature.
To be honest… he had no idea what he was doing.
"Man, buying tickets these days doesn't need a travel agent or hours on the phone," he muttered while scrolling. "Just open your phone, tap-tap, and... boom. You're booked to Singapore."
A small grin formed as the e-ticket appeared.
"Don't even need to print it out. Just flash your phone. It's saved in your account—no more losing tickets like the old days…"
He nodded to himself.
"Technology's insane… Back then, I didn't even have a passport," he murmured. "Let alone fly abroad."
He strolled slowly toward the guesthouse, his steps light, his heart heavy with memory.
"I only flew once—domestic—to Yogyakarta. When Grandpa died." He chuckled at the memory. "And I nearly missed the flight… just because the ticket slipped under the pillow. Mom was panicking, I was already crying."
Everything used to be so complicated. You had to print tickets, stash them in stiff blue envelopes, and carry them like gold. Now?
"It's all clicks. Saved on your phone. It's like the world doesn't want you to miss your chance anymore…"
But beneath all the convenience, Urip knew the trip wasn't about tickets or passports. This time… he wasn't traveling as the old Urip. But as Lim Gabriel—or perhaps both. And there was something he needed to find. In a place full of memories… even if they weren't originally his.
Stepping off the plane, Urip's eyes widened in awe. As soon as he set foot on the gleaming floors of Changi Terminal 3, his chest stirred with wonder.
"Oh wow…" he whispered.
He paused in the corridor lined with glass, opening up to a massive vertical garden. The green wall seemed to greet him with a hush of nature, blending with the soft trickle of water from an indoor pond catching the glow of artificial sunlight.
He looked around—glass walls, towering ceilings, polished floors, the smell of French pastries wafting from the bakery in the corner.
"This is… an airport?"
He could hardly believe it.
"Back then, airports were just chaotic transit points. Full of luggage, sleepy people, and PA announcements competing with the AC."
Now, everything felt calm. Elegant. Like walking into a modern art museum that made you forget the world was still noisy outside.
He smiled.
"People weren't kidding. Changi is like a city on its own. I feel like a country bumpkin…"
And maybe that was what made it magical. His small steps had brought him into Singapore—but it felt more like stepping into a new chapter of a life that never got a proper ending.