The temple caretaker welcomed him calmly — an old man in a gray robe with round glasses perched at the tip of his nose. He bowed respectfully as soon as Urip explained the reason for his visit.
"I've come to visit my grandmother's ashes," Urip said, his voice soft but steady. "Theresia Tan. Passed away in 1998."
The caretaker nodded gently and opened a large book from behind the reception desk. His wrinkled fingers moved deftly across pages filled with names, years of passing, and storage locations of the long-departed ancestors.
"Theresia Tan, you said… 1998…" he murmured, scanning the list. After a few seconds, he stopped and pointed to a line.
"She's here. Block C-7, middle shelf. In the old storage room, second floor. Please take the wooden stairs to the right of the prayer hall."
Urip nodded deeply and bowed again.
"Thank you."
He walked slowly through the quiet temple. Only the ticking of a wall clock and the soft chime of wind bells filled the air. The creaking wooden stairs beneath his feet felt like a bridge to the distant past — a past he still wasn't sure was his or someone else's.
In the storage room, the scent of aged wood and incense greeted him. Hundreds of urns lined up neatly. Urip stood in front of the middle shelf in Block C-7. His eyes moved slowly, searching.
And then… he found it.
A simple ceramic urn with the inscription:
"Theresia Tan — Beloved Mother. Passed away 1998."
He froze for a moment. Then slowly knelt down. His hand trembled as he reached under the shelf, then slipped a small folded prayer paper and a single white chrysanthemum — the one he had bought earlier at the airport — from his pocket.
"Hi, Grandma," he whispered softly. "I'm home. Late… but I'm home."
His chest tightened. Something welled up from deep within — not only Urip's grief, but Gabriel's too.
Urip remained kneeling in silence before the urn bearing the name Theresia Tan. His hand touched the cold floor, and his voice quivered, almost inaudible, like a prayer whispered into the sky.
"Shalom, Mrs. Theresia," he said with reverence. "It's me… Stefanus Urip Mulio."
He paused. His breath was heavy, his chest burdened by a guilt long buried — now surfacing.
"Do you still remember me? I'm the one who made you cry when you found out Siska was pregnant. The one who disappointed you… because I failed to keep my promise to protect your daughter."
His eyes burned. His hand clenched the chrysanthemum stem until it nearly crumpled.
"I didn't mean to leave, Ma'am. Truly. But… back then, God called me away too soon. I never got to say goodbye, never got to apologize. And somehow… God sent me back — to this world, in another body…"
He looked up slowly, staring at the quiet, cold urn, as if hoping for a response.
"This body… is your grandson's. Lim Gabriel. I don't understand why, Ma'am. But I know it's not a coincidence. I know I've been given this chance to make things right. I want to make things right."
He kissed his fingertips, then gently touched the name Theresia Tan etched on the urn.
"I know I'm no longer part of Siska's life. But I will protect her… and Gabriel… because that was the promise I made to you. A promise I never had the chance to fulfill."
Silence. Only the faint chirping of birds and the chime of wind on the roof.
"Thank you… for giving me this second chance. Even in the most unbelievable way… I will live it fully."
Urip bowed once more and placed the white chrysanthemum beneath the urn — the only thing he had to offer for everything he had lost.
—
Unnoticed, the tears began to fall — flowing gently from the corners of Urip's eyes. He didn't wipe them away. Let them fall… let guilt, sorrow, and the unspoken promises of the past dissolve with his quiet weeping.
He took a deep breath and looked once more at the name Theresia Tan on the white urn.
"Until we meet again, Ma'am…" he whispered softly. "Pray for me to stay strong."
Then slowly, he rose to his feet. His legs felt heavy, but his steps were firm. Outside, the world moved quickly as always. The Jakarta sky was slightly overcast, but the heat remained intense.
Urip stood by the roadside, eyes on his phone. His fingers — far more agile than two weeks ago — typed, tapped, and downloaded. The TakSol app finished installing in less than a minute.
He opened the app. Before booking a ride, he stopped at a small money changer near the temple. A few Singaporean dollars exchanged into rupiah. He chuckled to himself.
With his wallet now filled with rupiah, he opened TakSol again and typed:
Destination: Grogol, West Jakarta.
A few seconds later, a notification popped up: 🚗 Your driver is on the way.
Urip took a deep breath. The next journey was about to begin. Someone was waiting for him in Grogol. Perhaps it wouldn't be a grand reunion — but for Urip, every moment now felt like a second chance not to be wasted.
—
Jl. Danau Selatan III looked narrower than Urip remembered. Back then, it had felt like a maze filled with the shouts of kids playing plastic-ball soccer, mothers chatting on porches, and the smell of fried snacks from the corner stall. Now, many houses had been renovated — some with second stories, some with iron gates, others closed off like they were hiding memories.
But Urip's steps were steady. He still remembered — the small turn near the mango tree that had now been cut down, the pale-blue house with wooden windows that used to open wide every afternoon, and there it was — his old house.
The house where he once lived as Stefanus Urip Mulio.
It had been repainted — soft gray now, with a dark brown metal door. But the porch structure was still the same, and even the tiny carvings above the ventilation remained intact.
Urip stood at the gate, hesitating.
Then he lowered his head, steadying his emotions. This was where everything began. Where he had once hurt his family, and where he had lost everything — Siska, his future, even his life.
His hand touched the gate. Then he said softly, "Shalom."
There was no answer. But he hadn't expected one.
It wasn't a greeting for the new occupants. It was a greeting for the memories still lingering behind those walls. For the Stefanus Urip Mulio who no longer existed, though his traces still lived on in this narrow street.
A kind-looking old man with light brown skin slowly emerged from the house. His back slightly hunched, hair almost completely white, holding a broom — perhaps just finished cleaning the small front yard.
Urip straightened.
"Excuse me, sir," he said politely. "Was this once Mr. Vinsensius Mulyono's house?"
The old man paused and looked at him over his reading glasses hanging from his neck. Then he gave a small smile.
"Shalom." His tone was warm. "Ah… it's been almost twenty years since I bought this house from Mr. Mulyono."
Urip held his breath. Twenty years — a long time. That meant the family had truly disappeared from here.
"Do you happen to know where they moved?" he asked carefully.
The old man leaned slightly, resting against the gate.
"If I'm not mistaken, they moved to Yogyakarta. I think Mr. Mulyono requested a transfer to a state-owned company branch there. Said it would be quieter, closer to family. Back then… they had just gone through a lot."
Urip swallowed hard.
"Their son… the one who studied at Trisakti… do you know what happened to him?"
The old man's expression shifted. A trace of sadness flickered, even as he tried to stay composed. He let out a long sigh.
"Their son… went missing." His voice was heavy now.
"Missing?" Urip echoed quietly.
The man nodded.
"During the '98 riots. They searched for three years, reported to the police, hospitals, NGOs… no trace. His mother fell ill, and they eventually moved to Yogyakarta. They said… staying here would only remind them of all the bad memories."
He looked at Urip, curious.
"Who are you, if I may ask?"
Urip looked him in the eye. He nearly told the truth. But instead, he just smiled faintly.
"I'm… the grandson of one of Mr. Mulyono's friends."
The old man nodded gently.
"Well, time really does fly. People come and go. But I hope that young man's fate becomes clear someday. His parents… must have suffered deeply."
Urip nodded.
"Amen," he whispered softly, gazing at the house of his past — now, just a memory.