The morning sun poured over the rolling tea fields and neat rows of young strawberry plants in the quiet countryside of Uji. From a distance, the farmhouse looked almost untouched, but up close, signs of transformation were everywhere. Scaffolding lined the east wall, the old tatami mats had been lifted for insulation work, and the original kitchen had been stripped to make way for a modern off-grid system.
It had been nearly three weeks since the family returned to Cirebon and Tokyo, leaving Phuby and Hana to oversee the farmhouse renovations. But they hadn't been sleeping in construction rubble or dust-covered rooms. Anticipating this exact problem, Phuby had requested a temporary prefab modular cabin—furnished with a basic kitchen, bathroom, and sleeping quarters—to be set up at the back of the property near the tool shed. Compact and efficient, it gave them both privacy and comfort away from the noise and clutter.
"Best two million yen we ever spent," Hana said as she slid the prefab cabin window open to let in the cool breeze. "This little thing is saving our sanity."
Phuby, hunched over his laptop at the small dining table, nodded. "Agreed. And it gives us space to focus on everything else."
True to his word, Phuby had paid an additional Rp. 1.200.000.000 to expedite the farmhouse renovation—cutting what was initially a 2.5-month schedule into just one month. The added cost included doubling the workforce, using prefab elements for structural portions, and sourcing material from regional suppliers with express delivery. The system, as always, instantly refunded double the cost.
As construction continued, a new rhythm emerged. Each morning, Phuby and Hana walked through the site with Atsushi Tanaka, Mr. Haruki's friend and the lead contractor. They reviewed blueprints, adjusted details, and signed approvals. Some mornings, they delivered breakfast to the workers—winning small smiles and grateful nods in return. And each evening, they reviewed progress over tea and quiet discussions about interior layout, furniture selection, and long-term farm planning.
But while the house was transforming, so was their workforce.
The job flyers they had put up around Uji and on local websites had started to bear fruit. Within the week, Phuby had received several messages from locals—mostly older farmers and a few younger folks with some agricultural experience.
After two rounds of interviews held under a shaded tent beside the strawberry patch, Phuby selected:
Kenta Sakamoto, a 47-year-old tea farmer who lost his job when a corporate plantation downsized. He'd be in charge of the tea rows and field planning.
Yuji Tani, a quiet, soft-spoken 24-year-old who grew up on a farm but had been working part-time at a konbini. Phuby saw the potential in him—strong, humble, eager to learn.
Yuriko Hayashi, a bright-eyed 38-year-old mother of two whose husband managed a grocery store in Uji. She had a green thumb and offered to help with planting, weeding, and daily harvesting.
For housekeeping duties, Hana conducted the interviews herself. Eventually, she hired Emi Fujiwara, a gentle but efficient woman in her early 50s who lived nearby. She offered to come five days a week and help with cleaning, light cooking, and supporting the couple when they got busy with the farm or travel.
"She reminds me of your mom," Hana said later as they watched Emi organizing shelves with impressive speed.
"She does," Phuby agreed with a smile. "But your mom still wins in sass."
"Unbeatable," Hana laughed.
With labor now secured, the farm's future seemed more stable. But the most pressing matter was still deeply personal.
The following afternoon, Phuby and Hana traveled to the nearby clinic in Uji. The short drive through the countryside was peaceful, but Hana's fingers were clasped tightly together in her lap the entire way.
"You okay?" Phuby asked gently.
"I'm nervous," she admitted. "What if I'm wrong? What if it's just stress?"
"Then we deal with it. But if you're right…" he took her hand and gave it a squeeze, "we'll be even happier."
The clinic was clean and welcoming. After a short wait, Hana was led in while Phuby sat outside flipping through a tourist brochure of Kyoto's summer festivals—though he barely registered a word.
Fifteen minutes later, the door creaked open. Hana stepped out, her face unreadable. She walked up to him, holding a small paper in her hand.
"It's positive," she whispered.
Phuby's heart skipped. "Seriously?"
She nodded, and before he could say another word, she was in his arms.
"We're going to be parents," she murmured into his chest.
For a moment, the world slowed. The scent of the clinic, the faint sounds of nurses and children in the hallway—all faded. All he felt was her warmth and the quiet, electric joy blossoming between them.
"Thank you, Hana," he whispered.
"No," she replied. "Thank you, Phub."
As they left the clinic hand-in-hand, the countryside breeze brushed softly against them. Their farmhouse in the distance, the fields growing, and the walls rising—everything now pointed toward a future more full than ever before.