Mornings in the village of Pusong always began with the same sounds: the crowing of roosters, the clatter of pots from kitchens, and the soft, rolling murmur of waves in the distance. That morning, however, Rara sensed something amiss. The sound of the waves seemed closer than usual—as if the sea were slowly creeping toward her grandfather’s stilt house.
Rara had arrived in the village only three days earlier. The school break she had envisioned—spent in an air-conditioned room, phone in hand, watching her favorite series—had instead turned into days in a creaky wooden house with barely any mobile signal. Her mother, away on business, had left her in the care of Grandfather Samad, and Rara made no effort to hide her annoyance.
“Grandpa, the only way to get a signal here is by standing on a stool,” she complained, thrusting her phone toward the ceiling.
Grandfather Samad, sipping coffee on the veranda, merely smiled. His hair had turned completely white, yet his eyes remained as clear as freshly drawn well water. “In that case, stop looking for a signal. Try looking for something else instead.”
“Something else? Like what?”
“Voices.” He gestured toward the shore with his chin. “Nature is never silent, Rara. It tells stories every single day. It’s just that we’ve stopped listening.”
Rara rolled her eyes. She had heard things like this from adults before—usually followed by a long, tedious lecture. But that afternoon, with nothing else to do, she followed her grandfather as he walked toward the edge of the village.
The path leading to the shore was muddy and scattered with small pebbles. Along the way, Rara noticed something strange: dozens of tiny crabs were crawling up onto the dirt path, moving away from the water. They scurried along in a rush, like passengers who had missed their stop. “Why did the crab come up here, Grandpa?”
“That’s one of the first stories nature wants to tell you,” Grandpa replied. “Their home is disappearing.”
They reached the shoreline, and Rara stood frozen. Before her, old wooden posts rose from the water, leaning at odd angles like loose teeth. “That used to be Mr. Rusli’s front yard,” Grandpa said. “Fifteen years ago, the distance from here to the sea was as long as a soccer field.”
Rara stared at the water, which was now lapping at the base of the posts. “So, where did the land go?”
“It vanished along with the mangrove trees.” Grandpa sat down on a piece of driftwood. His voice grew quiet. “There used to be a dense mangrove forest here. The roots held the mud in place, the leaves provided homes for birds, and small fish laid their eggs among the roots. Then people—myself included—cut them down to build fish farms. We thought the farms would be more profitable.”
“And what happened?”
“The farms lasted five years. After that, the soil turned acidic, the shrimp died off, and the sea began to reclaim the land, bit by bit.” Grandpa offered a bitter smile. “Nature had been trying to tell us all along, but we were too busy calculating our profits.”
That night, Rara found it hard to sleep. Grandpa’s words kept circling in her mind. She stepped out onto the veranda and sat alone—without her phone, for the first time since she’d arrived. At first, all she heard was silence. Gradually, that silence unraveled into layers of sound: the chirping of crickets, the rustling of coconut fronds, and beneath it all, the waves—sounding like someone taking a long, deep breath, yet never finding relief.
The next morning, Rara was awakened by the sound of a hoe. Grandfather was already in the backyard, hoisting a sack filled with long, green stalks that looked like giant pencils.
“These are mangrove propagules,” Grandfather explained. “Seedlings. I gathered them from the last remaining mangrove trees at the far end of the bay. There are only seven trees left, yet they still bear fruit—as if they refuse to give up.”
“Are you going to plant them all by yourself, Grandfather?”
“I’ve been doing it alone for two years now. As you can see, only eleven trees have survived.” Grandfather let out a light, carefree laugh. “But eleven is better than zero.”[]