The 40th Day
POV 6 – Mr. Sumarwan (From His Own Voice)
Today, I brought jasmine flowers. Just a small bunch. Not as an offering. But because she loved them.
It's been forty days now. I've sat here, across from this empty chair. The same chair that once sat on our porch. Where she would sit in the afternoons, embroidering or simply watching the birds pass by.
I used to think grief was like a wound. You just wait for it to dry up. But it turns out, there are kinds of loss that never dry. They settle in silence, growing like invisible mold inside the heart.
I tried to forget. Kept myself busy. Teaching. Gardening. But every time I heard the sound of the evening breeze, I felt her calling me. So I decided to wait. One hour each day. Forty days. Not because I expected her to return, but because I wanted to be present—just in case there was something left unsaid.
And tonight, I feel she's here.
Not as a shadow. Not in a dream.
But in a silence so deep—it carried Rahayu's voice.
"You've been quiet long enough, Sum."
---
POV 7 – Rizka (Little Girl), 40th Day, Night
I dreamed.
In my dream, I was sitting on the empty chair. But I wasn't me. I was an old woman with long white hair. Across from me was an old man, crying.
Then a voice floated through the air:
"Sometimes, the empty chair is not meant for anyone else. But for us—to learn that not every departure leaves a void."
I woke up. And I cried. I don't know why.
---
POV 8 – Tegar (Journalist)
I already posted the story about Mr. Sumarwan last week. But tonight, I returned to the village square. There were still two chairs. But one was... empty.
He didn't come.
There was a small bouquet of jasmine on the chair. And a note, written in an old man's shaky hand:
> "If this chair is empty again tomorrow, it means I have taken the one across."
I shivered.
This was not a story of a madman. It was about patient love, a kind of grief that never asks for replacement, a waiting not born of hope... but of reverence.
---
POV 9 – Dion (The Skeptic)
Funny, isn't it?
I came this morning. The chairs were gone. But I sat on the ground where they used to be. I closed my eyes.
And in the quiet, I apologized—to someone I once loved, but never said sorry to after they left.
I don't know if it was spiritual, psychological, or just delusion.
But I felt lighter.
---
POV 10 – General Narrator (Closing)
In that little village, no one really knew who Mr. Sumarwan was—was he a teacher, a shaman, a husband, a friend, or simply a man who loved too deeply?
But starting from the 41st day, more people began placing chairs in the village square. Empty chairs. Some left letters. Some just sat in silence. Some merely passed by, but paused and bowed slightly.
There were no rules.
But something had changed. The silence there was different now. As if each chair held a story left unfinished. And anyone could come and continue the tale.
Because sometimes, what we need isn't an answer—
But a place where silence can be heard.
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Cultural Note:
In Javanese and Indonesian Islamic traditions, the 40th day after someone's passing is marked with prayers, visits, or quiet rituals. It reflects the belief that the soul remains nearby for 40 days—this time is used to honor, grieve, and release.
Philosophical Reflection:
The "empty chair" symbolizes loss—but also remembrance, reconciliation, and a space for those who have left to live on in memory.
Local Rumor:
In parts of Central Java, it's believed that if someone performs a quiet ritual for 40 days straight, the spirit they're addressing might "hear" them—not to return, but to receive what was left unsaid.