Dinda knelt, feeling the tangle of prop roots. The ones facing the rising moon (which was east) were slicker, greener. She pressed her ear to the largest root. A faint drip… drip… drip echoed inside.
Then she saw them: kunang-kunang —fireflies. But not just any fireflies. They gathered in a specific berembang tree, a species of mangrove apple tree her father loved. He had said, "Pokok berembang selalu tumbuh di tanah yang paling tinggi dan paling kering. Tempat selamat semasa air pasang besar." The berembang tree always grows on the highest, driest ground. A safe place during a king tide. malajuven
"The mangroves saved us," she said softly. "They gave us water. They showed us the way. We didn't protect them, but tonight… they protected us." Dinda knelt, feeling the tangle of prop roots
As dawn broke over the village, painting the sky in hues of orange and gold, Dinda made a silent promise. She would not just be a survivor. She would be a voice. A guardian. A faint drip… drip… drip echoed inside
Dinda looked around. They had no phone, no light, just a small knife her father used for carving wood. Above them, the stars were blocked by the dense canopy of Rhizophora trees. Below them, the black mud gurgled.
They walked for an hour, sometimes sinking to their knees in mud, sometimes climbing over fallen logs. The fireflies became their lanterns, guiding them from one berembang tree to the next. Dinda’s mind was a storm, but her hands were steady. She was a malajuven —a young mangrove guardian. Not by title, but by blood and memory.
Refreshed, they pressed on. Dinda knew the sea was to the south, but the sea meant the open bay and the main road back to the evacuation center. How to navigate without a compass?