Malajuven -

"Here, Rizki," she whispered. Using the knife, she carefully cut a notch into the root, just as her mother had shown her once during a fishing trip. Clear, cool water trickled out. Rizki drank greedily.

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.

It was the longest night of Dinda’s twelve-year-old life. The acrid smell of smoke still clung to her clothes, and the distant wail of emergency sirens had faded into an eerie, moonlit silence. She clutched her little brother, Rizki, who was shivering despite the tropical humidity. They were lost in the mangrove forest on the edge of their fishing village. malajuven

Their father, a boat builder, had always warned them: "Hutan bakau adalah paru-paru laut. Jaga dia, dia jaga kita." The mangroves are the lungs of the sea. Protect them, and they protect you.

They stumbled into a clearing where the mangroves gave way to a coastal road. A team from the village Posko Bencana rushed forward, wrapping them in blankets. Rizki burst into tears of relief. Dinda just stood there, looking back at the dark wall of trees. "Here, Rizki," she whispered

Pak RT’s face hardened with resolve. "Tomorrow, we rebuild. And this time, we listen to the trees."

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. Rizki drank greedily

"Follow the leaning branches, Rizki. Like Papa’s boat leaning into the wind."