The bus groaned as it came to a halt, its wheels screeching against the concrete. Yuni's heart thumped loudly in her chest. Outside the window, the city stretched endlessly in every direction, a maze of lights, steel, and glass. The tall buildings towered above them, their windows glowing with muted yellows and whites, each hinting at a life unfolding inside. The streets below teemed with movement—people in hurried strides, motorcycles weaving between cars, the occasional bicycle bell ringing sharply. The city was alive, too alive, and Yuni felt the sudden weight of how small she seemed in its vastness.
Eris leaned closer to her. "It's… so big," he whispered, awe mixing with fear in his voice. His usual confident stride faltered slightly as he clutched his small backpack. "Do you think… we'll be okay here?"
Their father squeezed Eris's shoulder, giving a reassuring nod. "We'll be fine. Just follow me, step by step." His voice was calm, grounding. Yuni exhaled slowly and nodded, taking one last look at the streets from the bus window. A pang of longing hit her unexpectedly—a fleeting ache for the narrow lanes of their village, the scent of wet soil after rain, and the distant call of cows from early morning.
"I… I miss it already," she murmured, almost to herself.
Eris's grip tightened on her hand. "Me too," he said softly. "Even with all this… this brightness and noise, I wish we could see the old fields just once more."
Their father's eyes softened. "We will carry it in our hearts," he said. "The village isn't gone; it's a part of us. And now we have this new place, too. A new beginning, without forgetting where we came from."
Taking a deep breath, Yuni stepped forward, her first real step into the city. Eris followed hesitantly, glancing down at their feet, then up at the tall buildings looming over them. "It's… taller than I imagined," he said softly.
Their father chuckled, a gentle sound that seemed to settle the nervous fluttering in their chests. "Yes, it's taller. And busier. But it's ours now. Or it will be, once we settle in."
They walked together down the crowded sidewalk, weaving past small shops with bright signs and the occasional street vendor. Every honk, every shout, every passing footstep felt like part of a rhythm, one that Yuni tried to match with each heartbeat. Still, she couldn't help but think of the quiet village mornings—the rustling of leaves, the soft footsteps on muddy paths, and the smell of fresh bread from the corner bakery.
"There's a lot to see already," Yuni said, trying to match Eris's tone of awe. "It feels… alive. Really alive. But I… I wish the village smelled like this sometimes," she added quietly, referring not to the fuel or food smells, but to the life outside that reminded her faintly of home.
Eris nodded. "Alive… but a little scary too. I miss… you know, the trees, the open fields… even the cowbells," he admitted.
"You'll get used to it," their father said. "Step by step. For now, let's focus on getting to our home. And remember, we can bring small pieces of the village here—memories, routines, even the smells, if we try."
As they moved down the lane, Yuni noticed a small tea stall tucked in between two larger shops. The scent of frying snacks and sweet chai reached her. "Dad… can we have some tea here sometime?" she asked, her eyes sparkling.
Their father smiled. "Of course. This will be part of our routine too. We can explore, slowly. There's nothing wrong with enjoying little comforts as we settle in."
Eris wrinkled his nose at the frying oil smell. "I think I'll miss Mom's cooking more than anything," he admitted, his voice tinged with sadness.
"We all will," their father agreed, placing a reassuring hand on his son's shoulder. "But we'll cook together here too. You'll see—new recipes, new smells, new tastes. And we'll always bring a piece of the old home with us."
The lane curved, and their apartment building came into view—modest but neat, painted in pale cream with patches of older layers showing beneath. A small metal gate guarded the entrance, slightly rusted at the hinges, and a crooked bell hung beside the door. Yuni's heart pounded again, not with fear this time, but with anticipation. She stole one last glance backward at the far-off streets that had carried them from the bus, imagining the open roads of their village where the wind had felt freer, and the earth had smelled sweeter.
"This is it," their father said, pausing before unlocking the gate. "Our first stop in the city."
Eris looked up at the building, then back at Yuni. "Do you think we'll like it?"
Yuni smiled faintly, squeezing his hand. "We'll make it ours, just like Dad said. But… I'll miss the village sometimes," she added softly.
Their father nodded, as if expecting this. "That's natural. Missing it doesn't mean we're leaving it behind. We'll carry it with us, even as we grow into this new life."
Inside, the building smelled faintly of paint and damp cement. The stairwell was narrow, creaking under their footsteps, and the walls were a muted beige. Yuni's eyes wandered over the faded patterns on the steps, the small landing where a forgotten mop leaned against the railing, and the thin rays of streetlight filtering through the small windows. Memories of their old home's wooden staircase, worn from years of use but familiar and comforting, made her pause. The city felt foreign, yet she could almost trace echoes of home in the way shadows fell.
They reached the apartment door on the third floor. Their father fumbled with the key, and with a click, it opened. A rush of new smells greeted them—wood polish, faint cooking remnants, and a trace of the building's age. The living room stretched before them modestly, with walls painted in pale cream and small marks of previous tenants' lives still visible. The sunlight, fading as evening fell, filtered through sheer curtains, casting soft shadows on the wooden floor. Yuni's gaze wandered to a corner, remembering the old clay pots back home that had held flowers on their windowsill.
Yuni stepped inside first, dragging her eyes over every detail. "It's… small, but nice," she whispered, almost to herself. "But it… it isn't home yet. Not really. I miss the smell of the fields in the morning."
Eris wandered over to the window, peering out. From this height, the streets below looked like rivers of gold and silver under the city lights. He pressed his small hands against the cool glass. "It's… really big out there. And bright. But I… I miss the stars in the village. They were… closer somehow."
"You'll get used to it," their father repeated, carrying in their suitcases and placing them carefully along the walls. "And soon, this window will feel like our own little lookout. Our first piece of the city to call ours. And someday, maybe we'll even bring a little of the village here, in pots, in smells, in memories."
Yuni moved toward the small kitchen, running her fingers along the countertop. It was nothing like the earthen surfaces back home, smooth and cool to the touch. She imagined the meals they would prepare, the laughter that would fill the room, and a warmth began to bloom in her chest. Yet a tiny ache lingered for the old hearth, the way her mother had stirred the pots over smoky flames.
"I hope we can make some kind of little garden here," Yuni said softly, her eyes scanning the balcony outside the window. "Even just a pot or two… some flowers, maybe herbs. It would remind me of home."
Their father nodded thoughtfully. "That's a wonderful idea. Little pieces of home wherever we can. The city won't erase the village from our hearts. We'll carry it in smells, in colors, in stories."
Eris bounced lightly on the balls of his feet. "And maybe we can even make a cowbell sound somehow! Or… or keep the stars close!"
Yuni laughed, the sound lighter than she felt. "We'll figure it out, Eris. Slowly. One step at a time. Just like Dad said."
The bedrooms were modest, painted in soft shades that the previous tenant had left behind. Their father gestured toward the first room. "This one can be yours, Yuni. You and Eris can share the other room. We'll make it work."
Yuni nodded, looking around the room that would soon hold her books, her clothes, and the small touches of home she had carried in her backpack. Memories of the old wooden bed, handwoven blankets, and the soft creak of floorboards under her feet came rushing back.
Their father unpacked essentials first—clothes, toiletries, a few utensils. There was a rhythm to it, a slow unfolding of domesticity that promised stability in a world that had seemed overwhelming just an hour before. Yuni lingered by the window again, her eyes tracing the river of lights far below, thinking of the winding paths of their village, where each corner had a story, each tree a memory.
"I wonder," she said softly, "what our life here will really be like. Will it feel… like home soon? Or will I always miss the village?"
Her father's voice came steady from behind her. "It will, Yuni. It just takes time. Patience, and a little courage. And missing the village… that's part of loving it. We carry it with us, even as we grow into this new life."
Eris, now sitting cross-legged on the floor with one of their suitcases, looked up. "Step by step," he repeated. "And… maybe one day, it'll all feel like home. Even the city."
Night fell fully, and the apartment settled into a quiet rhythm of its own. The city lights glimmered like distant stars through the thin curtains. Outside, the hum never ceased, but inside, there was warmth, a gentle quiet, and the faint sense of belonging that comes from the first night in a new home—mixed with a tender ache for the village they had left behind.
Yuni lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The shapes of the shadows made strange patterns, but instead of fear, she felt curiosity. There were stories in these walls, stories waiting to intertwine with theirs. And in every quiet thought, a memory of home lingered—a cow bell, a muddy path, the laughter of neighbors.
Eris, curled beside her, let out a soft yawn and murmured, "I think I'll like it here… with you and Dad. But I hope… we can visit the village soon."
A small smile tugged at Yuni's lips. "Me too," she whispered. "Me too."
Their father, seated on a chair by the living room table, finally sank into his own thoughts, letting the quiet evening wash over him. He thought of the village they had left behind, the simplicity, the slower pace, and then of this new life, vast, uncertain, and shimmering with possibility. He knew it would be challenging, but he also knew they would adapt, together, step by step.
And so, the first night passed. The city outside continued its restless life, but inside the small apartment, a fragile peace had begun to settle, laying the groundwork for a thousand stories yet to come. A place for memories of the village and the beginnings of a new life, side by side.
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Chapter 8 is done! Things are slowly unfolding—tell me in the comments what you think so far, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter!