The Golden Mending

EPILOGUE - The Compass That Always Leads Home

One Year Later.

My solo exhibition in Jakarta tonight was the pinnacle of my career. Everyone praised me. Everyone wanted me on their stage. In the corner of the room, Adrian stood with the same smile he’d had for the past year—loyal, calm, and always there.

After the event, we sat on the gallery balcony, looking out at the glittering lights of a Jakarta that never sleeps.

"Lala," Adrian called softly. He pulled a small box from his jacket pocket. Inside, a ring with a clear blue sapphire sparkled. "This past year, I’ve tried to be the person who understands you most. I want to be the one who protects your smile forever. Will you marry me?"

I stared at the ring. Adrian was every woman’s dream. He was a "green flag," he was successful, and he deeply respected my privacy. But as I looked into his eyes, I didn't feel the same spark. There was a hollow space. There was a room in my heart that hadn't truly been filled, no matter how hard I tried to cover it with success.

"Adrian..." I took a long breath, my eyes beginning to tear up. "You are the best man who has ever entered my life. You saved me when I was drowning. But... I can’t lie to you, and I can’t lie to myself."

Adrian went still, his hand slowly lowering the ring box. "There’s another name in your heart, isn't there?"

"It’s not just a name, Adrian. It’s history," I whispered. "Seven years isn't just a number. Behind all the wounds, there are roots too deep to pull out. I’m sorry, Adrian. I can’t give you what you’re asking for."

That very night, I packed my things. Not to move to another apartment, but to chase something I had left behind.

Jogja, Three Days Later.

The old house on the outskirts of Jogja looked serene with a frangipani tree in front. I stood at the wooden fence, watching a man sitting on the porch, reading a book to a little girl perched on his lap.

The man wore a simple t-shirt and a sarong. His face looked much calmer, though traces of exhaustion remained.

"Intan, look... there’s a bird over there," said the voice I knew so well. Roy’s voice.

I stepped inside. The sound of my footsteps on the gravel made Roy turn. He froze. The book in his hand nearly fell. He stood up slowly, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

"Lala?" he whispered. "Why... why are you here? Weren't you supposed to be at your exhibition in Jakarta?"

I looked at him for a long time. There was no more anger. Only a soul-crushing longing. "Jakarta was too loud, Roy. And it turns out, being successful alone isn't as sweet as I imagined."

Roy stepped down from the porch, approaching me. His eyes began to wet. "I’m not the man I used to be, La. I have nothing now. I only have Mother, Intan, and the regret I carry every day."

"You have me, Roy. If you still want to take me back," I said, my tears finally falling.

Roy pulled me into a tight, desperate embrace. His scent was still the same—the scent that had been my home for seven years. In his arms, I realized that love isn't always logical. Sometimes, we have to go as far as possible just to realize that our home—no matter how broken its history—is exactly where we want to grow old.

"Thank you for coming home, La," Roy whispered in my ear.

Under the quiet Jogja sky, I knew this was a new beginning. Not a perfect one, but an honest one. I had returned to the man who once broke me, but also the man who knew every inch of my soul.