A. A Fragment of Thruth
In a place untouched by steel and smog, far beyond the reach of urban clamor, a man strode down a narrow path veiled in morning haze. His silhouette rose tall against the pale sky, every step steady, deliberate—like the earth itself knew to part for him. No urgency marred his pace. The dawn wind whispered through the folds of his long, obsidian coat, sending trails of dust scattering like spirits fading into ash.
His face bore the weight of stories unspoken—sharp lines etched by time, a jaw like weathered stone. A close-trimmed beard lent him the air of someone long burdened by command. Yet it was his eyes—calm, hollowed by unseen wars—that held the truth: this was no ordinary traveler. Under the reluctant light of a sun just beginning to rise, strands of silver glinted at his temples, woven into the dark waves of his hair like threads of prophecy.
He was Windah. A name carried in whispers. One of the Seven Celestial Guardians. A guardian not of legend, but of consequence. His power was not paraded, only sensed—in the tension of his presence, in the silence that followed his steps.
Windah, his steps steady and resolute, entered a village nestled at the foot of the mountain.
The chill in the air soothed his breath, and a light dusting of snow clung to the earth and trees like a whispered blessing. Morning sunlight stretched across the rooftops, casting long shadows over the snow-covered ground. The village lay in stillness—as though each corner held a secret it dared not speak aloud.
He stopped before an old wooden house. Its walls were etched with cracks, paint flaking away like skin long forgotten by time.
"Excuse me," Windah said softly, knocking on the half-open door.
"Come in," came a voice from within—weak, but unmistakably clear.
He pushed the door gently, and it groaned on its hinges. Cold air slipped inside, brushing past him as he stepped cautiously into the dim room.
There, beside the hearth, sat an old woman cloaked in shadow and emberlight. The firelight trembled on her skin, not just wrinkled, but etched—as if time itself had written on her with a trembling hand. Her eyes, though half-lidded, glimmered with a strange clarity—too sharp, too knowing.
The warmth of the fire did not seem to touch her bones, and yet she did not shiver. Around her, the air hung still—unnaturally so—as though even the wind had learned to tread carefully near her presence.
She smiled, slowly. Not with mere fondness, but with the weight of memory. The kind of smile worn by those who have watched centuries slip through their fingers like sand.
"Ah, Windah. It's been so long since we last met," she said, voice low and textured with both warmth and echo. "Sit, my child..."
Windah removed his coat in silence, yet his gaze lingered—not on the flames, but on her hands: pale, delicate, and motionless, resting atop her knees like relics undisturbed.
He sat down, but part of him—some small, coiled instinct—remained standing.
The old woman gazed at Windah with a tenderness that seemed to defy her age. Despite her eyes dimming with the weight of years, they still held a glimmer of love—soft but undeniable. "Windah, my child," she began, her voice steady, yet imbued with the depth of a lifetime, "what brings you here?"
Windah smiled faintly, recognizing the warmth in her voice. Though not his biological mother, she had always treated him as her own—an enduring bond that had been forged over the years.
"Yes, Grandma," Windah replied, "I've come to share news of your great-grandchild. But more than that… I've come to hear the story left unfinished."
Grandmother Alina fell silent for a moment. Her gaze sharpened, as if it cut through the layers of time, piercing into forgotten memories. Anyone who dared meet her eyes would find themselves drawn into the depths of shadowy pasts—dark, unspoken, and long hidden.
"An unfinished story, is it..."
Her voice drifted like smoke from an ancient flame—fragile, yet steeped in memory.
She was Alina Jatna, a name whispered through generations. Though her body bore the wear of time, the dignity of her bloodline—half Dutch nobility, half shadowed mystery—remained unshaken. In her eyes, calm yet piercing, lingered echoes of a past forged in fire, woven with secrets too great to tell.
Alina was no ordinary elder. She was the last heiress of House Jatna, one of the Four Great Clans of the old world—guardians of what the common tongue had long forgotten.
Before the age of independence, Alina was given a burden cloaked as destiny: to unseal twelve arcane locks scattered across the archipelago—each binding the pulse of the land itself. Where she walked, towers rose from slumber, and the winds of change followed.
But these seals were not mere barriers. They were sentinels of primal forces—older than scripture, hungrier than time. Hidden in unreachable places: behind veils of mountain mist, buried in the hollowed bones of the earth, or deep within forests that had never heard the name of man. And each was guarded—by creatures not born, but bound—watchful, willful, and wrathful.
Yet Alina did not step into the storm unarmed. She bore something unspoken, unrecorded in any chronicle or chant. A power known only to the silent few.
Those who witnessed her triumphs vanished into silence. Not from fear—but from reverence. The truth she carried was too vast, too shattering, to be passed on by simple words.
Whispers persist, of course. But no voice has ever captured what she truly saw as each seal broke. Some claim she uncovered truths predating the gods. Others believe she struck a bargain with something that exists between breath and void.
When her task was done, Alina vanished—fading from glory, retreating into shadows. Her name slipped into myth, her story swallowed by the hush of those who knew what price was paid for the twelve seals unbound.
Yet among those who remember, one truth remains:
Alina Jatna is not merely a woman lost to age. She is the final warden of a truth so potent, so perilous—
—that its unveiling could fracture the world itself.
Alina turned her gaze away, choosing silence over revisiting memories best left buried. The sudden hush that fell between them was broken only by the whisper of wind drifting in from outside.
"Grandma Alina?" Windah called softly, his voice barely more than a murmur—an attempt to cut through the growing weight of silence.
Her eyes slowly returned to his, as though waking from a reverie carved deep in time. She drew a breath, quiet and measured, before finally speaking.
"Ikrar... What of the boy? Is he... growing well?"
Windah gave a slow nod, his expression calm—reassuring, even. "Yes. Your great-grandson is growing up in good health..."
But a brief pause cracked the surface of his words. His smile faltered, fading with the dimming light in his eyes.
"Though, if I'm being honest—his body is not like that of other children his age."
"I see." Grandmother Alina exhaled long and slow, the sound laden with more than mere breath. Her voice returned, laced with quiet understanding.
"It seems... the seal within his body is far stronger than we imagined. Strong enough, perhaps, to hinder his growth."
Windah furrowed his brow, a flicker of confusion and concern crossing his features. "What do you mean, Grandma Alina?"
"Years ago," she began, her voice steady though laced with sorrow, "her mother—my granddaughter—made a choice few could ever understand. She sealed the entity Azal within herself... alongside her husband."
Her gaze lingered in the shadows between them, and her words fell like fading embers.
"But I never imagined Sylvia would follow the same path. And now... inside Ikrar, dwell four distinct souls."
Windah swallowed hard. The weight of her words sent a chill down his spine.
The old woman turned her eyes toward the window. Beyond the glass, the wind stirred the leaves that had begun to fall—autumn's quiet whisper.
"What I fear," she murmured, "is not just Azal… but whether Ikrar will have the strength to carry the fate that awaits him."
Windah lowered his head, a heavy silence settling in his chest. "Is there no way to rid Ikrar of Azal's presence, Grandma Alina?"
"A way?" Her lined face lifted to meet his gaze, firm and unflinching. "You already know the answer to that, Windah. You were there when Sylvia bore Azal within her. You witnessed the destruction that followed."
"Yes," he whispered, unable to meet her eyes. "I remember."
Alina closed her eyes then, her breath deepening as though conjuring visions best left undisturbed.
"One day, the seal inside that child will break. I feel it. Whether by force, emotion... or something else entirely."
"What could cause the seal to unravel?" Windah asked, his voice soft but urgent now, eyes searching hers for any glimpse of hope.
Then, Grandmother Alina raised her hand, holding up two fingers as a quiet gesture.
"There are two ways the seal inside Ikrar can be broken. First—he must be wounded. And second—it can be undone by a member of the Jatna bloodline."
"Wou...nded?" Windah echoed the word softly, confusion still lacing his voice.
"Yes. More precisely—when Ikrar suffers a wound severe enough to threaten his life," she clarified, her voice steady but laced with dread.
"In such a moment, the Nirmala technique embedded by one of his parents will activate. It creates a sliver of opening—just enough for Azal to slip through. And through that crack... Azal will find his chance to act."
Windah let the weight of her words settle over him. The logic, grim as it was, began to take root in his thoughts.
"I see now. Just like what happened with Sylvia... back then."
His voice trailed into silence as memories surfaced—dark, uncontrollable, and haunted by the time one of the Celestial Guardians lost control.
It was a time not just of destruction, but of—
—massacre.
A few years ago, a year that would forever be etched in memory as the worst in any history. That year, nature seemed to lose its balance. Not one, but three calamities struck in succession, engulfing almost the entire nation in devastation. These disasters didn't creep in slowly; they struck with brutal force that no one could have ever imagined.
The tsunami was the first to hit. The ocean waves, which had seemed calm just moments before, suddenly roared like a wild beast rising from the depths of the earth. Waves tens of meters high swept across various coastlines, crashing into fishing villages and major cities with immeasurable force. Houses crumbled, ships were tossed like toys, and the screams of humans mingled with the thunder of water that drowned everything. The sea, once a source of life, had turned into a curse that claimed thousands of lives in an instant.
But this disaster was just the beginning of the nightmare. Amidst the destruction caused by the tsunami, the sky, which had been a bright blue just moments before, darkened without warning. An unthinkable snowstorm hit this tropical nation. Thick snow began to fall non-stop, covering cities and villages in a cold white blanket. Within hours, the temperature dropped drastically, reaching levels the entire society had never experienced. Plants withered and died, animals froze in place, and humans were trapped in homes now encased in ice. Those who had survived the tsunami now faced deadly cold. Their skin froze, their breathing became labored, and within days, thousands were found dead from hypothermia in their own homes.
Days later, the sky seemed to show no mercy. As the snowstorm began to subside, the final blow came, plunging the archipelago into total chaos. In the distance, black whirlwinds could be seen twisting wildly, moving with the fury of a vengeful god. These whirlwinds didn't come alone; several struck simultaneously, tearing apart what was left of the land. Skyscrapers that had stood after the tsunami and snowstorm now crumbled, destroyed by winds strong enough to toss cars into the air. Roads were filled with debris, people were thrown from their feet, and the earth shook as if it was about to crack open.
For a whole week, the archipelago was no longer a safe place to live. Nature seemed truly enraged, unleashing its fury without pause, demanding retribution for acts it didn't even understand. Hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of lives were lost; homes and cities were reduced to rubble, with only a handful of the strong managing to survive the catastrophe.
Windah remembered it all vividly. Alongside four of the seven Celestial Guardians, they stood amidst the chaos. When the entity Azal tore apart Sylvia's body seal, the sky split open and the oceans churned. He knew the tsunami wasn't just an ordinary wave; it was the result of a power that shouldn't have been unleashed. The snowstorm came because polar winds were drawn into the vortex of energy, and the tornadoes were the final manifestation of nature's wrath against the chaos Azal had created.
Seeing Windah lost in thought, Grandmother Alina's heart stirred with concern.
"What troubles you, Windah? What weighs on your mind, my child?"
"Grandma Alina…" He hesitated, as if the words themselves were too heavy to speak. After a long breath, he continued,
"I've always questioned my decisions. And… I'm sorry—for doing something that brought you sorrow. You know that I have—"
"It's all right, Windah," she interrupted gently, her smile widening with warmth. "There was no wrongdoing between you. You both stood beneath your own truths."
With that, Alina rose from her chair and walked slowly toward him. "There is no absolute truth in this world. Everything appears so elusive, like shadows just beyond your grasp. Just as I once abandoned the honor, glory, and power of the Jatna lineage," she said, each step deliberate, yet unwavering.
"What seems evident on the surface may not be the true reality. The deeper you delve, the more uncertainty you'll find."
As she stood mere steps away, the old woman reached up with a trembling, weathered hand and gently cupped Windah's cheek—her touch still imbued with a tenderness time could never erode.
Then, in a breath like a prayer, she uttered the words. "Ranah Kuasa: Nirmala."
The moment the incantation left her lips, the very air shifted.
Wind stirred from unseen places, and a hush fell over the world, as if nature itself held its breath in reverence. From the tips of her fingers, a golden light unfurled—gentle, yet all-encompassing—spreading like ripples across a still lake. It enveloped her body not in fire or fury, but in the quiet majesty of dawn breaking over ancient peaks.
Windah could do nothing but watch, transfixed.
The skin that once bore the stories of age smoothed into luminous grace. The curve of her spine straightened as decades unraveled. Her silver hair flowed into dark chestnut strands, catching the light like silk touched by stars. Time wept in silence and retreated from her, step by step.
And when the light faded, it revealed not an old woman—but a young maiden of ethereal beauty. Her eyes, now vibrant with an otherworldly blue, shimmered with knowledge older than any life could carry. The gentle warmth of a grandmother still lingered in her smile, yet it was laced now with a timeless strength, the kind found only in those who had walked through fire and returned with their soul intact.
Windah's breath trembled.
He could not speak. He could not even move.
There she stood—Alina Jatna. Not merely reborn, but revealed.
"My family... my blood... is but a fragment of a darker history. I chose to disappear—not out of fear, but to ensure the darkness would not pass on to my children, my grandchildren, or their children after them. I walked another path to protect them, even if it meant becoming something they could never fully understand."
Now, every word that left Alina's lips flowed like a melody—gentle and resonant, echoing softly in the space between them. Her voice no longer bore the weariness of age; it was the voice of a young woman, fresh and vibrant, yet brimming with secrets and the weight of a life lived through untold truths.
Windah, overwhelmed by the transformation, instinctively stepped back—his feet shifting without conscious thought.
"G-Grandma Alina... what is happening?"
"This," Alina said calmly, "is the highest peak of Nirmala—the power I once abandoned... yet one that has always remained a part of me."
Windah stood frozen. His tongue felt heavy, caught between disbelief and a truth too strange to accept.
"W-Why are you only showing me this now?" he finally asked, his voice trembling at the edge of uncertainty.
Alina slowly lowered her hand from his face, as if severing a delicate thread that bound past and future together. Her gaze remained fixed, deep and unwavering—piercing into his eyes like a silent mirror reflecting the weight of memory.
"Because the time has come," she said softly. "This curse can no longer be allowed to linger... and that means—"
She drew a deep breath, her features hardening with unshakable resolve.
"—I will step forward. I will fight, to save Ikrar."
***
B. Ultimatum
That morning, Ikrar woke with a lingering reluctance. The sun had begun to slip through the thin curtains of his cramped boarding room. The air felt colder than usual—perhaps a leftover echo of the strange phenomenon from the day before.
But whether he liked it or not, school still awaited.
He sat up on the bed, which let out a tired creak beneath his weight, and cast a glance at the old television in the corner. Its screen had grown dull, the colors faded, and the speakers often crackled with distortion. Still, it remained a valuable source of information in his modest little space.
After slipping on his glasses, he reached for the remote, pressing the buttons several times before the screen flickered to life, humming with static.
A blurry image flickered onto the screen, showing a morning news segment. A female reporter stood before a massive monument, dressed in a thick coat—an odd sight for someone reporting from Jakarta. In the corner of the screen, a bold headline read: "Mysterious Snowfall Returns to Parts of the Archipelago."
Ikrar immediately focused.
"Viewers," the reporter began, her voice steady against the subtle background hum, "a strange weather anomaly has struck several regions in Indonesia. The return of this unusual snowfall has once again left experts baffled. Climatologists admit they still cannot explain the phenomenon, though some suggest it may be linked to an atmospheric anomaly unlike anything seen before."
Ikrar's expression hardened. His voice turned hoarse as he muttered to himself,
"No way this is just some random anomaly. Just like six years ago... something's wrong."
The camera shifted to street scenes covered in a light blanket of snow. People stared in disbelief, while others ran joyfully through the flurries, trying to catch the delicate flakes with their hands.
With a sharp press of the button, Ikrar turned off the television. A creeping unease stirred within him—an ominous sense he couldn't quite explain. But for now, he pushed it aside. School awaited him, even though his heart now brimmed more with questions than any real desire to learn.
"Ugh, no need for a shower. What's the point anyway?"
Wasting no time, Ikrar rose and stood before the mirror, his eyes still squinting—evidence that sleep hadn't quite let go of him. His school uniform hung neatly on the rack, though as usual, he put it on with lazy, unhurried movements.
Once the last button was fastened, he stared at his reflection. A dark-blue jacket now wrapped his body, embroidered with intricate batik patterns that coiled around the chest and sleeves. Twin birds and curling trees were woven in threads of gold and brown, giving the uniform more the air of a ceremonial robe than school attire. White trimming along the collar and pockets gave it a sharp, almost regal outline—too dignified for someone who'd rather crawl back into bed.
As he finally stepped outside, a sharp chill bit into his skin. Ikrar shoved his hands into the jacket's pockets and walked through the narrow alley that connected directly to the main road.
The morning air in Bandung, usually cool, felt different today—colder, more biting. A gust of wind swept across his face, carrying snowflakes falling from the sky.
His steps slowed as he reached the edge of the main road. Bandung, typically bustling with noise and motor vehicles, now felt entirely different. The rooftops, trees, and especially the sidewalks were covered in snow, an element so out of place.
The sight almost made Ikrar forget that he was in his hometown. Though the snow wasn't as thick as in the countries with winter seasons, it was enough to make Kota Kembang feel as though it belonged to a different part of the world.
Feeling both strange and unsettled, he quickened his pace, hoping to reach school soon. A sense of foreboding kept gnawing at his thoughts—that this snow was not just a natural phenomenon, but the beginning of something much bigger. However, his steps came to an abrupt halt when a soft yet firm voice pierced through the cold morning air.
"Ikrar…"
Ikrar turned quickly, as if the call had sliced through his consciousness. Then, a girl emerged from behind the fog. Her hair was short, shoulder-length, pale white like frozen dew. Her eyes were calm but sharp, as though she had been watching Ikrar long before their gazes met.
Ikrar knew her, of course. Aira.
The girl was dressed in the traditional school uniform, but with a unique touch. A batik blazer with a delicate pucuk rebung motif swept the edges of her sleeves and hem, flowing elegantly with every step she took. Underneath, a neat red tie hung behind a dark blue sailor-style collar with golden-yellow trim. Her skirt resembled a sarong, yet it was tailored to move gracefully as she walked—a perfect blend of tradition and function, too beautiful to be just a standard school uniform.
"Rushing to school already? Can't wait to learn, hmm?" Aira asked with a flat expression, but there was a warmth to it.
Ikrar pouted a little. "Not really…"
"Then… what's the hurry?" Aira tilted her head, her curiosity piqued.
Ikrar looked up, watching the snowflakes dance in the air. There was something he wanted to say, but he stayed quiet.
"Nah, it's just so cold. I feel like I'm gonna turn into a snowman," he replied, still staring up at the sky.
"Come on, let's get moving. School's not gonna wait," Aira said, tugging at Ikrar's sleeve without missing a beat.
"Whoa, Aira—!" he protested, stumbling slightly as he tried to keep up.
They began walking side by side toward school.
As they made their way, the distant sounds of children's laughter reached them. A group of kids ran around, trying to catch snowflakes with their tiny hands. Some giggled with delight, while others looked puzzled, unsure of what to make of the unexpected snowfall. A woman, bundled in a thick jacket, stood nearby, watching them with a concerned expression.
Witnessing this blend of joy and confusion, Ikrar couldn't help but smile faintly. A thought crossed his mind—if only his older sister, Sylvia, were still around, they might be out here playing in the snow together.
"If only she hadn't gone… we'd probably be having a snowball fight right now," he mused silently.
Lost in his thoughts, he was brought back to reality by Aira's voice, calm and matter-of-fact as always.
"Hey, Krar, let's get married and have kids-cute as those."
Ikrar blinked, processing her words. Then, with a roll of his eyes, he thought, "This girl's circuits are definitely fried."
Without responding, he turned his gaze back to the path ahead, choosing to let the comment slide.
Not one to be ignored, the girl quickly caught up, her steps hurried. "Hey, Krar, wait up!" she called out, finally walking alongside the boy. "Did you hear what I said earlier?"
"Nope. Not at all," Ikrar replied flatly, though it was clear he was lying.
Aira let out a long sigh, her tone relieved. "Phew... good thing you didn't."
Their steps eventually brought them to the school gate. Snow continued to fall, blanketing the ground and rooftops in a soft white layer. Some students were busy taking photos or playing around, but Ikrar and Aira walked past them—immersed in their own conversation.
But like the sun that briefly peeks through clouds before a storm, their warmth was fleeting. The sky above darkened, and the once gentle snow transformed into a relentless flurry, descending same an omen. The camaraderie that had begun to blossom between them was abruptly halted by the biting cold that showed no patience.
"Krar, I know about yesterday. Toni bullied you, didn't he? And you didn't fight back." Aira stopped at the school entrance, her words cutting through the air same a silent storm. Her gaze was piercing, and the atmosphere grew colder with her statement.
Ikrar froze, his feet feeling heavy. He looked down, watching the snow slowly cover his shoes. Shame prickled at his heart, each word from Aira forcing him to confront a truth he'd tried to ignore.
Aira stepped closer, her voice softening. "Ikrar, you can't keep going like this. Sometimes, standing up isn't about strength or winning. It's about standing up for yourself."
Ikrar swallowed hard, words failing him. Inside, a battle raged between fear and the desire to change.
Aira sighed, her tone turning resolute. "If you don't start facing your problems and keep running away... then don't talk to me again."
Her words were sharp, but beneath them lay genuine concern. Ikrar knew she only wanted the best for him. Still, hearing it hurt.
Before leaving, Aira added, "Remember this, you're stronger than you think. Don't lose heart."
With that, she turned and walked away, leaving Ikrar standing alone in contemplation. He watched her retreating figure, feeling the weight of her words settle in.
Snow still fell gently, filling the silence between heartbeats. But the near-still world was suddenly torn open by a voice that slipped in from behind—like a small sun peeking out from behind the gray sky.
"Yo, morning, bro!" Guruh appeared with a bright grin, as if the cold had never touched him.
He gave Ikrar's shoulder a casual pat and glanced toward Aira, who was now a distance away. "Hey, was that Aira? Where's she been the past two weeks? Family stuff, right?"
Ikrar nodded lightly. "Yeah. Said she had some family business. Just got back last night."
Guruh squinted at Aira's retreating figure. "Weird. She usually doesn't disappear for that long. Just a few days at most," he muttered, puzzled. "But she kinda seems... different now. Like—more serious or something."
Ikrar kept staring ahead, not really hearing. His breath misted in the air, not just from the cold, but from the weight quietly pressing on his chest. Aira's ultimatum still echoed in his mind, hammering against the walls of his thoughts like snow tapping endlessly on a windowpane.
Not getting a response, Guruh turned his attention back to Ikrar. "BTW, from over there, it looked like she was talking to you real seriously. What's happening?"
Ikrar swallowed hard. His mouth opened as if to respond, but no words came out.
"No need to answer," Guruh interjected swiftly, giving Ikrar's shoulder a gentle pat. "I can see it in your eyes. Krar, you're like a bonsai tree. You look small, but that's only because you've been constrained. If you were allowed to grow freely, you'd surpass everyone."
Ikrar blinked, a silence settling between them, filled only by distant laughter and the crunch of snow underfoot. Yet, within that quiet, a memory surfaced.
"You're not small, Ikrar. It's just that the world isn't big enough for you yet."
It was Sylvia's voice—soft, calm, and reassuring. Though spoken by someone else, Guruh's words echoed that comforting sentiment from a time when Ikrar, as a child, cried beneath the bunk bed, and Sylvia gently stroked his hair in the darkness.
A faint smile emerged on Ikrar's face. He looked down slightly, exhaling softly. "Thanks, Ruh, for always being there when I feel at my smallest."
Guruh nodded confidently, then, without warning, added with a grin, "Small, huh? You are small, yeah. You're only 150 centimeters tall."
Ikrar's eyebrows furrowed. "You're such a Cilok Maniac!" he retorted, playfully attempting to kick his friend.
Guruh deftly dodged, laughing freely as he sprinted down the hallway. "Just stating facts, broh!"
"Oh, you're dead meat!" Ikrar shouted, immediately chasing after him.
The usually quiet corridor now echoed with the rhythm of their footsteps and bursts of laughter. They ran like carefree children, momentarily shedding the weight of the world. Their playful chase infused the school hallway with a rare warmth and joy.
Yet, like a cold breeze sneaking in unnoticed, the future had already begun to weave its own path. The bond that now seemed strong and unbreakable might soon face trials. Unaware of what lay ahead, Ikrar laughed wholeheartedly in this moment. He felt light—grateful for a friendship that required no words, just shared presence he hoped would last.
The school bell finally rang out, slicing through their camaraderie.
Guruh halted at the end of the corridor, grinning triumphantly. "Haha! Nah, I win!" he exclaimed, extending a hand to the breathless Ikrar.
Still catching his breath, Ikrar grasped the offered hand. "Yeah, yeah. You win," he replied, pulling himself up with a bit more force, as if conveying unspoken gratitude.
They exchanged smiles, savoring this simple moment before turning and walking together toward their classroom. And though they walked side by side, neither knew that this day would become one of the few memories they'd cling to as everything around them... slowly began to change.
In the classroom.
The lesson was about to begin. A thin breeze slipped through the cracks in the windows, carrying a strange, damp scent. Outside, the sky was turning gray, as if holding onto something it refused to explain.
Inside, a few seats remained empty. The chatter among students had begun to fade, replaced by a soft hum.
Ikrar sat at his desk, eyes fixed on the blank whiteboard—not that it was interesting, but his gaze wouldn't let go.
Suddenly—
"AAACHOO!"
His sneeze broke the quiet, startling the two rows in front of him.
Ikrar wiped his nose with a handkerchief, his head slightly bobbing from the force of the sneeze.
"You okay, Krar? Sick or something?" Guruh turned toward him, brows drawn in concern.
Still dabbing his nose, Ikrar shook his head slowly. "Nah. Just felt a sudden chill."
Guruh smirked, slipping a myth into his teasing tone. "Maybe someone's talking about you. You know what they say—when you sneeze like that, someone's mentioning your name."
Ikrar frowned. "Ugh, don't start with those superstitions."
"This kid, I swear—always arguing," Guruh huffed, rising and walking back to his seat. "Whatever. The bell's about to ring and Ms. Siska's definitely on her way. Babay!"
Ikrar didn't reply. His eyes wandered to the window.
The clouds had thickened, hanging low over Bandung's skyline. A faint wind carried the scent of damp soil—and something else he couldn't quite place.
Something that smelled like memory.
A green dragonfly landed on the window sill. It looked ordinary at first, but its large compound eyes seemed to watch … observe … judge.
An odd feeling settled in Ikrar's chest. Not fear.
But something closer to being watched.
Slowly, he turned his gaze away from the dragonfly. His eyes drifted toward the seat behind him.
Empty. Still.
Yuda's seat.
And for a moment, the world felt too quiet.
"…ah, it's probably just my imagination—"
"—but why isn't Yuda here yet?"