Chapter 5: Whispers of the Kenanga
Seasons passed.
In the heart of Alas Purwo, where the kenanga trees bloomed without end, Tenggirang remained. She was no longer the wandering spirit of sorrow, nor the imprisoned soul at the mercy of forgotten magic. Now, she was the Guardian of the Three Gates, keeper of the veil, protector of balance. But even the most sacred roles could not silence longing.
Each day, she walked barefoot through the forest, her footsteps silent, her presence almost unseen by mortals. Birds no longer fled from her. Animals bowed their heads. Spirits danced quietly in her presence, recognizing her not as kin, but as queen.
And yet, each evening, as the sun melted into the horizon and the forest was drenched in gold, Tenggirang returned to the spring—where Wira had faded into light. She sang for him, not as ritual, but as remembrance. Her voice, soft as wind on water, wove through the trees like perfume. And the kenanga blossoms swayed as if listening.
One night, as her song faded, she noticed something.
The blossoms had changed.
Not all, just one—pale gold turned to pure white. A single flower on a low-hanging branch, trembling though there was no wind. She reached for it. The moment her fingers brushed its petals, a pulse rippled through the earth, and a whisper—soft and almost human—fluttered into her ears.
"He is not gone."
She froze.
"Who's there?" she asked, though her voice barely rose above a breath.
No answer. Only the scent of the kenanga growing stronger—sharper. Almost alive.
Tenggirang plucked the white blossom and held it to her chest. It was warm.
That night, her dreams returned.
She stood in a forest, but not her own. The trees were foreign—tall and silver, glowing faintly from within. A mist blanketed the roots, and strange lights floated like fireflies. In the distance, she saw a figure.
Barefoot. Shirtless. His back to her.
"Wira?"
The figure turned.
But it wasn't Wira.
The man's eyes were gold like Wira's had become, but his features were different—younger, sharper, wild. His hair was long, tangled with vines, and his skin bore markings that shimmered like ancient script. He smiled at her, crooked and warm.
"You heard the whisper," he said. "So did I."
"Who are you?"
"I don't know yet," he said, walking closer. "But I'm looking for someone. Someone with a name written in the roots of the kenanga. They said she sings under the moon."
Tenggirang stepped back. "This is my dream. Why are you here?"
He tilted his head. "Is it a dream?"
Before she could speak, the forest split with a loud crack, and a black shadow surged up from the mist. The ground beneath her feet fell away—
And she awoke, gasping.
The white blossom was still in her hand.
And it was glowing.
She took it to Ki Ranu.
The old sage had aged even more in the last season, his hair snow white, his cane now required to walk. But his eyes lit up the moment he saw the flower.
"White kenanga," he whispered. "A message from the Kayangan Dalam—the inner realm. Where souls rest, or wait."
Tenggirang frowned. "So Wira… he's in the inner realm?"
Ki Ranu didn't answer at first. He placed the flower in a bowl of spring water and watched it float. "There's an old tale. Forgotten by many. It speaks of the Tumbuh Jiwa—the Soul Bloom. A flower that grows once in a generation, marking a soul that refuses to fade."
She leaned in. "You think he—"
"I think his soul chose not to sleep. And now…" He pointed at the blossom. "It seeks a path back."
"But he sacrificed himself. How is this possible?"
"Love," Ki Ranu said, "bends more than time. And if Wira left behind even one thread of longing… the forest would honor it."
Tenggirang's hand trembled. "Then I must find him."
Ki Ranu placed his hand over hers. "Be careful, child. Not every soul that rises is whole. Not every path through the inner realm leads home."
That night, she returned to the clearing with incense, stones, and a circle of salt. She sat cross-legged and placed the glowing blossom at the center.
She whispered the verse of crossing.
Not to open the gates.
But to walk between them.
The forest pulsed once. Then twice.
And then, silence.
Her body fell backward, eyes closed.
But her spirit stood—awake, luminous, and unbound.
The inner realm was colder than she remembered. Not icy, but ancient. Still. As if time itself was sleeping. The trees were ghostly reflections of the ones in Alas Purwo, and above her, the sky was an endless dome of stars—none she recognized.
She wandered for what felt like hours. Days. Time did not behave here.
She passed other spirits. Some looked lost. Others ignored her. A few reached for her, whispering names she did not know.
Then, she heard a familiar song.
Faint. Broken. But his.
She ran toward it.
Through the veil of mist, she saw him—kneeling by a dying tree, his hands on the bark, his face worn. It was Wira.
But not as she remembered.
His hair was shorter, eyes dulled, as if light had drained from them. His body was thin, almost translucent. Like a soul unraveling.
"Wira!"
He looked up, startled. "Tenggirang…?"
She ran to him, cupping his face. "You're here. You're real."
He smiled faintly. "You… found me."
Tears welled in her eyes. "Why didn't you return?"
"I couldn't," he whispered. "My vow—my soul was anchored here. But then I heard your song. Felt your hands in the roots. And… a path opened."
"I want to bring you back," she said. "To make you whole."
He touched her cheek. "But what will you lose if you do?"
She paused.
Wira stood slowly, his form flickering like candlelight. "I am part of the forest now. For me to return, something else must take my place."
"No," she said fiercely. "There must be another way."
"Maybe…" he said. "But it will cost."
From the trees, the golden-eyed man appeared again.
"You found him," he said. "But he's fading. Fast."
Tenggirang stepped between them. "Who are you?"
The man smiled. "I'm what's left of the gate. The balance that didn't break, but cracked. I am Saka. And if you want to pull him through, you'll need to give me something."
She narrowed her eyes. "What?"
Saka's gaze softened. "A memory. Your strongest one. The day your soul woke. The song he first heard. If you give it to me, I can trade it for his return."
Wira shook his head. "No. Tenggirang—don't."
But she stepped forward. "If I forget the song, will I forget him?"
Saka said, "You'll still love him. But the day you became you… will be lost. Forever."
She looked at Wira. "Will you remember it?"
His eyes welled. "I already do. I always will."
She nodded once.
Then reached into her chest—and pulled out a thread of silver light.
The memory.
The first time she sang beneath the moon. The first tear she shed for freedom. The moment her name echoed through the trees like a vow.
She gave it to Saka.
And in that instant, Wira gasped—his body solidifying, light returning to his skin, breath in his chest.
He was whole.
And Tenggirang collapsed.
She woke in Wira's arms, back in the real forest, by the spring. The kenanga blossoms swirled around them, golden-white and blooming brighter than ever.
But something was missing.
"What is this place?" she asked, looking around, confused.
Wira swallowed hard. "It's where we first met."
She frowned. "Have… we met before?"
He took her hand gently. "Not like this. But we will."
A tear slipped down his cheek, though he smiled.
The song was gone.
But the love remained.
And in the trees above, Saka watched.
Silent.
Smiling.