After six days of light rain that soaked the streets of Bandung, a gentle breeze swept in, curling through alleys and under bridges, brushing against the damp pavement like a soft whisper. Above, the grey clouds began to peel back, letting golden sunlight slip through the spaces between buildings and trees. The warmth trickled down, caressing a city still glistening from the downpour.
But even as the sky opened, peace could not erase the stains of history. Some things linger. Like smoke that clings long after the fire is gone.
In the heart of the city, people gathered in the park—perhaps to breathe, perhaps to forget. Yet beneath their quiet smiles, murmurs of the past still stirred. Tales long buried clawed their way back into the daylight, whispering of the night when the Pasundan flag flew for the last time.
And then—subtly, almost unnoticed—the scenery shifted. Skyscrapers loomed with sleek confidence, their mirrored glass reflecting a future that raced forward. LED lights lined every street, awaiting nightfall to spill their glow. Yet, in shaded alleys and forgotten corners, spray-painted slogans still clung to crumbling brick. Ghosts of protest. Scars of rebellion. The city's soul could not be paved over so easily.
From the green silhouettes of the mountains that circled the valley, silent witnesses watched still. They had seen the blood, the fire, the dreams burnt to ash. Once, freedom had fled into those hills. Now, serenity returned—but not silence. The earth remembers.
And through the ruins—of cities and stories—a new generation rose. Many had never heard the crack of gunfire, never seen the embers of the flag as it fell. Yet their feet walked paths etched by those who had. Every step, unknowingly, traced the echoes of old. A new story had begun. But it was one already… written.
In one quiet corner of the city, where the path split the rice fields into neat little patches, Ikrar sat in silence, gazing into the distance. His eyes were fixed on Gunung Nini, standing proud and still beneath the reddening sky. Though the wind carried faint echoes from the school canteen, he paid them no mind. His thoughts were elsewhere—lingering on Toni's words, weighing the helplessness, the sense of being left behind… of being a Nusalain.
But before long, a voice gently broke through his thoughts.
"Bro, cilok's here! Hot, chewy, and won't call you names."
Guruh arrived with a broad grin, holding out two small plastic bags, offering one to Ikrar.
They sat side by side, beneath a sky painted by the colors of dusk. The evening breeze whispered softly around them, cooling the tension that hung in the air.
Ikrar accepted the cilok Guruh handed him, feeling a small lift in his chest, though the heaviness hadn't quite left.
"Thanks, Ruh," he murmured.
"Chill out, bro..." Guruh grinned wide, his eyes practically sparkling with mischief. Without missing a beat, he dug into the steaming cilok, shoving it into his mouth with an enthusiasm that could only be described as borderline manic. His left hand clutched a skewer like a trophy, while his other hand dived back into the bag, like he was searching for hidden treasure. The sound of his aggressive chewing rang out, breaking the evening's peace with an almost comical brutality.
"What even is this creature?" Ikrar muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing as he shot a sidelong glance at Guruh. He could only watch, a mix of disbelief and amusement painting his features as Guruh devoured the cilok with what seemed like supernatural speed.
"Cilok maniac." Ikrar thought to himself, shaking his head with a half-smile. "Is he eating it… or attacking it?"
Guruh, oblivious to the world around him, didn't even notice the silent stare. He finished one skewer with a snap of his jaw and immediately reached for another, his movements as swift as a predator in the wild. The sound of his chewing now felt like the relentless beat of a drum, each chomp echoing in the calm of the late afternoon.
"Ruh, take it easy," Ikrar finally said, unable to hold back his chuckle. "It's not like the cilok's gonna sprout legs and run off."
Guruh paused for a moment, his gaze shifting toward Ikrar. With his mouth still stuffed, he mumbled, "How can I chill when these cilok are this good?" His words were muffled by the chewing. "Mang Asep's cilok is legendary!"
Ikrar shook his head, unable to suppress a grin. "If there was a championship for fastest cilok-eating, you'd definitely be the champion."
Guruh merely shrugged, too absorbed in finishing his "mission" to respond properly.
At last, Ikrar's laughter rang out, light and free. For a brief moment, the weight on his heart felt a little lighter. Though fleeting, that moment of laughter brought a rare sense of peace and calm he hadn't realized he needed. But like the leaves swept away by a gentle breeze, that laughter slowly faded, replaced by a vacant stare and a smile that waned.
"Must be nice, huh, being a Nusantarana, Ruh?"
Guruh turned to look, sensing that Ikrar's tone was too heavy to ignore. "What do you mean, Krar?"
Ikrar fell silent. It took a few seconds before he finally spoke, his voice hoarse with unspoken pain. "I mean... it must be nice. You don't get bullied, you're not looked down on, and you're not seen as a burden. Everyone just... sees you as valuable."
Guruh paused, watching as Ikrar seemed to sink deeper into sadness. Seeing his friend so wounded by the world, Guruh wiped the last traces of cilok sauce from his lips and took a deep breath.
"Nah, not really, Krar," he said gently. "Like my older brother said, 'Power isn't everything. In fact, sometimes it brings more problems than you think.'"
Ikrar glanced at him, his face creased in confusion. "What do you mean? It's obvious you have power, but me? I've got nothing."
Guruh offered a faint smile, his gaze shifting toward the towering mountain in the distance. The scene framed them perfectly, like nature itself was holding its breath for what he was about to say.
"Everyone has their own pace, Krar. Like that mountain over there."
Ikrar followed his line of sight, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Looks tall and unshakable, right?" Guruh continued, his voice calm, drifting with the breeze. "But it didn't grow overnight. Took time. Pressure. A whole lot of waiting. Just like us. We've all got different paths. And you don't have to be a Nusantarana to be strong."
Ikrar shook his head slowly. "But I can't do anything, Ruh. I'm a Nusalain. How can I ever stand on equal ground with people like you?"
Guruh chuckled softly, not mocking, but warm. "Who said you don't have anything? You're good at martial arts, focused in class, and seriously—if you weren't around during exams, I'd have failed every single one."
Ikrar cracked a smile, unsure whether to laugh or be confused by the sudden change in tone.
"You're cool, Krar. But if you keep depending on power alone, sooner or later, you'll feel hollow inside," Guruh said again, his voice calm, eyes still anchored to the mountain that loomed in the distance. The sun had dipped lower now, casting golden light over its ridges, like a crown resting on its head.
"Don't look down on yourself. You have something most Nusantarana don't. You're smart, patient—and above all, you don't give up, no matter how harsh the world gets. Power... isn't always about how much ranah you control or how hard you can punch. Sometimes, the strongest force lives in the heart."
Ikrar said nothing. He let Guruh's words float and settle within him, like leaves finding their place on still water. Something about them felt different—not like pity, not like empty reassurance, but like truth. For once, he allowed the thought that maybe… he wasn't broken. That maybe there was worth in him beyond what he could or couldn't do.
A flicker of something warm stirred in his chest. Not quite hope. Not yet. But it was enough to soften the weight he'd been carrying. He looked out at the mountain again—its shape unchanged, its silence unchanged—yet, somehow, it no longer felt so distant.
Yet, beyond the sight of most—beyond even his own—Ikrar's fate was far greater than merely being a Nusalain.
There was something sealed deep within him, a truth long kept hidden.
Only a handful knew of it, and even they had chosen silence.
A dormant force rested in him—something unseen in generations past.
For now, Ikrar could only ponder.
But slowly, surely, that quiet sense of acceptance began to unlock a door within him—
a door to something far greater, something the boy had yet to truly understand.
The time had not come, not yet.
But when it did, the truth of who he truly was would rise—
and the world around him would never be the same again.
The wind stirred once more.
Ikrar looked up, closing his eyes.
But just as he began to drift deeper into thought—
something strange happened.
Something that should not have been possible.
"Hey, Ruh…" Ikrar's voice was almost inaudible, barely rising above the silence, his gaze still fixed on the sky, which seemed oddly unusual.
Guruh, still focused on the mountain, furrowed his brow, not paying much attention. "What? You getting all philosophical again? Stop interrupting."
But Ikrar's gaze never wavered. "Is that... snow?" he asked, his voice uncertain, as if trying to seek reassurance, his eyes squinting, doubting what he was seeing.
Guruh slowly looked up, half in disbelief. His eyes followed Ikrar's gaze, and for a moment, there was emptiness in his expression before he realized the truth that could not be denied—delicate white flakes were falling slowly from the gray sky, floating as though suspended, before gently touching the ground. In the midst of the lush green fields and tropical air, snow—something completely impossible—was beginning to fall, light and real.
"Holy crap, Krar!" Guruh exclaimed, his eyes wide open in shock. "Snow is falling in Nusantara? No way!"
But reality was undeniable. Snow kept falling, slow and graceful, covering the earth and the walking paths that no longer felt the same. The air, once warm with their friendly banter, now felt slightly colder, just enough to make the atmosphere feel wrong, alien. As though the world itself had shifted, leaving them in a strange, unsettling uncertainty.
Ikrar still stared at the sky, confusion replacing the calm that had begun to settle within him. There was something bigger than this weather phenomenon—something that couldn't be explained, but could certainly be felt. Something creeping, like an imbalance that defied logic, stretching beyond their understanding.
"What is going on?" Ikrar muttered, his voice filled with unease, as if the world had suddenly tilted. "Why is snow falling again on this earth?"
*
Meanwhile, not far from the stillness of disbelief, a girl stood unmoving, her shoulder brushing the bark of a lone tree. Snow-white hair framed her face, catching the light like frost under moonlight—unnatural, like the wintry haze that wrapped the clearing in silence. She didn't belong to the scene; she was the scene.
Her name was Aira.
There was a hush about her—not serenity, but a sharpened stillness, as if her breath alone might tip the balance of something fragile. Her eyes, clear and cutting, pinned themselves to Ikrar with an intensity that left no room for doubt—she was watching, and she understood more than she let on.
Then her lips parted, just enough for a whisper to slip through.
"If I linger, they'll sense it."
A faint sigh ghosted from her mouth. With that, she turned—no rustle, no farewell. Her footsteps made no claim on the earth. The wind didn't stir as she passed; the trees seemed to lean away in reverence.
Within seconds, she vanished between shadows and snowfall.
No one noticed.
And that was her design all along.