Chapter 1

Sagara and Niskala stood motionless at the entrance gate of a village called Dusun Getihan. The minivan that had brought them there had left ten minutes ago. For some reason, the driver had floored the gas pedal the moment Niskala’s last foot touched the paved road, as if he couldn’t get away from the place fast enough.

As far as the eye could see, wild bushes lined the narrow village road, barely wide enough for a single car to pass. The unpaved dirt road was riddled with potholes filled with rainwater. The scent of wet earth hung in the air. Raindrops still clung to the leaves, like tears reluctant to fall.

They had arrived toward dusk, when daylight slowly gave way to night—a time some villagers considered an ill-fated hour to be out on the road.

Niskala glanced at the darkening sky.

“Bang, Mom said we shouldn’t still be on the road when Maghrib comes.”

The brothers exchanged a glance.

Sagara looked down at the scrap of paper in his hand again, checking that the name written on the village gate matched the one their mother had given them. Once he was certain, he nodded firmly.

“Come on. We’d better hurry. Maghrib’s almost here. But watch your step. The road’s wet. You might slip.”

As Sagara started walking, something in the evening air stirred a memory. Not a complete recollection, but scattered fragments arriving without order.

A child’s laughter.

The slap of sandals against wet earth.

And the scent of flowers he had once known so well.

Sagara stopped for a moment. The corner of his lips lifted into a bitter smile. Then he continued walking when Niskala tapped him on the shoulder.

—

A pair of banyan trees stood majestically at the entrance to an old house that still retained its former grandeur. An elderly woman with a slightly hunched back stood in the doorway, waiting to welcome her two grandchildren, whom she had missed for so long.

“Assalamualaikum, Grandma.”

Sagara and Niskala took turns kissing their grandmother’s wrinkled hand. The old woman did not return their greeting. She merely looked at them with an unreadable expression before turning and walking into the house.

In one of the rooms, a teakwood table was already laden with various dishes, their warm aromas filling the air.

“Eat first before you rest. It was a long journey. You must be tired and hungry.”

Sagara and Niskala took their seats opposite each other. Their grandmother, Nyi Rukmini, slowly made her way to the chair at the end of the table. She sat without saying much, then studied her two grandchildren in turn.

“Grandma…”

“Just call me Nyi.”

Sagara’s words were cut short by Nyi Rukmini’s correction, leaving him momentarily stunned.

“Oh. Right. All right, Nyi.”

Sagara reached for the pot of strong, hot tea and poured himself a cup. For some reason, the simple act felt necessary. At least it gave him something to do, something to occupy himself with as an awkward silence suddenly settled over the room.

Niskala noticed that his older brother was acting strangely. He reached for the pot and poured himself a cup as well.

After a single sip, he choked.

The intense aroma of jasmine filled his nose. The taste was unfamiliar, leaving a bitter aftertaste that lingered even after he swallowed.

Niskala frowned. He stared at the tea for a moment before glancing at Sagara.

Sagara understood his brother’s look. He simply shook his head, took another sip, then raised his cup slightly toward Niskala, as if to say, It’s fine. Drink it.

The young man glanced at the watch on his left wrist. There was still plenty of time before Maghrib—enough for them to fill their stomachs, which had been rumbling since noon.

Nyi Rukmini stood and spooned rice onto both of her grandchildren’s plates.

“Eat until you’re full. I’ve already prepared a room for you to rest in. Saga, you must still remember the room you used to sleep in. I’m sure you still remember the layout of this house. Make yourselves comfortable. Think of this place as your own home.”

Sagara fell silent.

The room he used to sleep in.

For some reason, those simple words sent a chill down his spine. Something stirred faintly in the corner of his memory, but it remained too indistinct for him to recognize.

Nyi Rukmini then walked away and entered a room at the end of the house, disappearing behind the door.

It was her own bedroom.

—

The water running over their hands was ice-cold, biting into their skin.

“Bang, the water’s freezing. It’s making me shiver.”

Niskala’s teeth chattered. Both his hands were trembling. Sagara watched him with concern.

“Are you uncomfortable, Dek? Just perform tayammum instead.”

Niskala quickly shook his head.

“I can still handle it.”

Sagara continued watching his brother for a few moments. For some reason, the water flowing from the tap felt far colder than ordinary water.

“Don’t forget your Bismillah, Dek.”

Niskala nodded.

After performing wudu, they headed back toward the room Nyi Rukmini had prepared for them to pray. But after only a few steps, Niskala suddenly flinched.

“Who’s that?”

Sagara immediately turned toward the direction his brother was pointing.

Niskala thought he had seen a fleeting shadow pass between the kitchen and the dining room. It had moved so quickly that he wasn’t even sure what he had seen.

Sagara narrowed his eyes, trying to catch sight of anything in that direction.

There was no one there.

He had been busy fastening the button on his shirt cuff and hadn’t seen whatever had startled his brother.

“There’s no one there.”

Niskala continued staring toward the kitchen for a few moments. For some reason, a shiver ran down his spine.

“Something just passed by,” he murmured.

He fell silent for a moment, still staring toward the kitchen. Eventually, he shook his head and dismissed it.

The two young men hurried toward their room to perform the Maghrib prayer.

Unbeknownst to them, something had already slipped inside.

From a distance, the figure watched them until they disappeared behind the door.

A faint smile curled at the corner of its lips.