The Heritage Weaver

Chapter 2: The Proposition

The meeting room of Batik Wijaya felt like two worlds colliding. On one side, the glass-walled space offered a view of our traditional workshop, where Pak Hadi and his team worked with quiet focus. On the other, the sleek presentation screen displayed Jung-Ho Corporation's perfectly crafted PowerPoint, full of graphs and projections that made my stomach clench.

"As you can see, Mr. Wijaya," the Korean executive continued in English, "our proposal offers significant modernization opportunities while preserving the core of your craft."

I watched my father's face carefully. Twenty-five years of playing poker with batik suppliers had given him an excellent mask, but I could see the slight tension around his eyes. He was actually considering this.

"The numbers are... compelling," he admitted, glancing at the financial projections. They were. Even I could see that. Three generations of tradition versus cold, hard reality in neat Excel sheets.

"We believe in the power of traditional crafts," a new voice joined in. I turned to find its owner – and nearly dropped my tablet.

The young man who spoke couldn't have been more than a few years older than me, but he wore authority like a perfectly tailored suit (which, incidentally, he was also wearing). Sharp features, sharper eyes, and the kind of confidence that came from knowing exactly who you were and what you were worth.

"Kim Minho," he introduced himself with a slight bow. "Project lead for the heritage preservation initiative."

Heritage preservation. Right. Like a wolf promising to preserve sheep culture.

"And you have experience with traditional batik production?" I found myself asking, my tone perhaps a bit sharper than intended. My father shot me a warning look, but Minho's smile only widened.

"I have experience in making traditional crafts profitable in the modern market," he replied smoothly. "Something that seems to be a challenge here, based on your latest quarterly reports."

I felt the hit like a physical blow. Those reports represented months of my father's stress, late nights reviewing budgets, and increasingly difficult conversations with our artisans about reduced hours.

"Modernization doesn't have to mean loss of identity," Minho continued, his tone softening slightly. "We've successfully integrated traditional Korean textile techniques into contemporary production. The artisans there—"

"This isn't Korea," I interrupted. "Batik isn't just a production technique. It's—"

"Ayu." My father's quiet voice stopped me cold. He turned to the executives. "Could you give us a moment? Perhaps a tour of the workshop?"

The older executives nodded graciously, but as they stood, Minho's eyes met mine. "You know," he said quietly, "passion for tradition is admirable. But passion doesn't pay artisan salaries."

After they left, the meeting room felt impossibly large and impossibly quiet. Through the glass, I could see Minho stopping at Pak Hadi's workstation, examining the intricate pattern being traced in wax. Even from here, I could read the anxiety in Pak Hadi's shoulders.

"Ayah," I started, but he held up a hand.

"The market is changing, Ayu. We either change with it, or—"

"Or we find a better way," I said quickly. "Give me a chance."

He looked at me then, really looked at me, like he was seeing past his little girl to... something else. "What are you suggesting?"

I took a deep breath, opened my tablet, and pulled up the business plan I'd been working on all semester. "Give me eight weeks. Let me show you how we can bridge both worlds without selling our soul to do it."

My father's eyes widened slightly as he scrolled through my proposal. "This is..."

"I've been paying attention," I said quietly. "To everything. The business classes, Ibu's stories about Korean business models, your lessons about batik. Everything."

Through the glass, I saw Minho looking back at us, his expression unreadable. I lifted my chin slightly. Let him look.

"Eight weeks," my father said finally. "Show me what you can do. But Ayu..." he paused, and for the first time I saw the weight of all this on his shoulders. "If this doesn't work..."

"It will," I promised, hoping I sounded more confident than I felt. "Trust me, Ayah. Some threads are worth keeping, even if we have to weave them into a new pattern."

He smiled then, just slightly. "Your mother's daughter," he said softly. "Always finding ways to blend worlds."

As if summoned by his words, I heard my mother's voice in the workshop, greeting the Jung-Ho team in perfect Korean. Time to face the music."Should we tell them?" I asked.

My father stood, straightening his batik shirt. "Let's go give Mr. Kim something new to calculate in those spreadsheets of his."

I followed him out, clutching my tablet like a shield. Eight weeks to save a legacy. No pressure.

At least I had a summer project now. Not exactly the Korean drama marathon I'd planned, but then again, with Kim Minho around, maybe I'd get my dose of drama anyway.

Just... probably not the kind I'd been hoping for.

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Notes:

- Ayah: Father (Indonesian)

[End of Chapter 2]

A/N: Thank you for reading! Don't forget to vote and comment if you're enjoying the story.

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