"Of course, I will keep watch here," said Leluhur Nala with a deep yet calm voice, echoing without shaking. "You may come here anytime if you wish to check… But if Baskara emerges from his meditation, I will inform you immediately."
Tirta bowed deeply, her voice trembling but sincere, "Thank you… Leluhur."
Her heart was still anxious, but at least that night she could return home with a glimmer of hope hanging in the gray sky.
They retraced their steps along the ancestral land's narrow paths, accompanied by the sound of insects and the whispering wind that carried memories of the child they hadn't seen in so long. Teguh held Tirta's hand—silently he, too, was suppressing the turbulent emotions within him.
Days passed.
Since that night, Tirta and Teguh were never truly at ease. They had become like silent pilgrims, returning again and again to the ancestral land. Sometimes once a month, sometimes every two—without pattern, without any fixed schedule. Only following the tide of longing that could not be contained.
They came with hope—sometimes bringing food, sometimes just sitting from afar, watching the temple where Baskara meditated. But there was never any change. The temple remained silent. The protective rajah still reflected a soft glow, not allowing anyone to come close. And Leluhur Nala was still there—meditating like an ancient stone unmoved by passing seasons.
Every time they returned home from the ancestral land, Tirta would always gaze at her son's empty bed. Touching the clothes hanging in the corner of his room, or sitting by the door, hoping that one night, he would knock—just like he used to.
"Can he still hear us from in there…?" Tirta whispered one night on the veranda.
Teguh didn't answer. He simply held his wife tightly, then looked up at the sky full of stars—as if hoping one of them was the eye of their child watching over them.
Months passed in the outer world, but time seemed to hold still for the four souls in their journey. They were scattered across all dimensions, traversing space and boundaries, each carrying a piece of Baskara's self, in search of the true essence—the purest form of fitrah.
The four souls of Baskara eventually parted ways, venturing into the four directions, seeking the deepest meaning of true fitrah.
The Soul of Strength and Courage wandered into the battlefield of the soul, challenging fear and doubt. It learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the ability to keep walking even when fear clutched the heart.
The Soul of Wisdom traced quiet lakes and shadows of the past, diving deep into choices and wounds. It discovered that true wisdom was the bravery to choose truth, even when it hurt.
The Soul of Empathy and Connectivity walked through the lives of others, feeling their pain and love. It realized that empathy was the bridge connecting the soul with compassion and humanity.
The Soul of Resilience and Control entered the darkest corridors within, facing emotional storms and the temptation of power. It understood that the greatest strength is mastering oneself without losing one's heart.
As time passed in the outer world, the stillness of the temple remained undisturbed. Baskara's body, seated in meditation like a living statue, began to show signs of change.
In the dead of night, when the wind ceased to blow and time itself seemed to hold its breath, a faint light emanated from his body. First, from his chest—where the soul of empathy and connectivity resided—a gentle shimmer emerged, like calming ripples of water.
Then, from his back, a sturdy radiance like solid rock shone, marking the return of the soul of resilience and control. Baskara's breathing grew deep and slow, as though in sync with the very breath of the earth itself.
From both of his hands, which trembled slightly though still folded in meditation, came a warm and courageous aura—the soul of strength and courage was merging once again. His body shuddered briefly, not from weakness, but because the fire within him had begun to burn anew.
"Of course, I will stand guard here," said Leluhur Nala in a deep yet calm voice, echoing without shaking the air. "You may come here anytime if you wish to check... But if Baskara has emerged from his meditation, I will inform you immediately."
Tirta bowed deeply, her voice trembling yet sincere, "Thank you… Leluhur."
Her heart was still anxious, but at least that night, she could return home with a faint hope hanging in the gray sky.
Their steps traced once again the ancestral land's narrow path, accompanied by the sound of insects and the whispering wind, carrying memories of the child they had not seen in so long. Teguh held Tirta's hand—silently holding back the storm within him that was no less fierce.
Days passed.
Since that night, Tirta and Teguh had never truly rested. They became like silent pilgrims, returning again and again to the ancestral land. Sometimes once a month, sometimes every two months—without pattern, without a fixed schedule. Only following the tides of longing they could no longer hold back.
They came with hope—sometimes bringing food, sometimes only sitting from afar, gazing at the temple where Baskara meditated. But nothing ever changed. The temple remained silent. The protective rajah still reflected a soft glow, allowing no one to approach. And Leluhur Nala was still there—meditating like an ancient stone unmoved by the seasons.
Each time they returned home from the ancestral land, Tirta would always stare at her son's empty bed. She would touch the clothes hanging in the corner of the room, or sit by the door, hoping that one night the boy would knock again, just like before.
"Do you think he can still hear us from in there...?" Tirta whispered one night on the veranda.
Teguh did not answer. He simply held his wife tightly, then looked up at the starlit sky—as if hoping that one of those stars was their son's eyes, quietly watching.
Months passed in the outer world, but time seemed to hold no sway over the four souls that were wandering. They scattered to every corner of dimension, traversing space and boundary, each carrying a part of Baskara in search of true essence—his purest fitrah.
The four souls of Baskara eventually separated, each venturing toward one of the four directions, seeking the deepest meaning of true essence.
The Soul of Strength and Courage journeyed into the battlefield of the spirit, challenging fear and doubt. It learned that true courage is not the absence of fear, but the will to keep moving even when fear grips the heart.
The Soul of Wisdom traveled through silent lakes and shadows of the past, diving into decisions and wounds. It discovered that true wisdom is the courage to choose what is right, even when it is painful.
The Soul of Empathy and Connectivity walked through the lives of others, feeling their pain and love. It realized that empathy is the bridge that connects souls through compassion and humanity.
The Soul of Resilience and Control entered the darkest corridors within, facing emotional storms and the temptation of power. It understood that the greatest strength is to master oneself without losing one's heart.
The passage of time in the outside world did not disturb the serenity within the temple. Baskara's body, seated in meditation like a living statue, began to show signs of transformation.
In the stillness of midnight, when the wind stopped blowing and time seemed to hold its breath, a faint light began to radiate from his body. First, from his chest—the resting place of the Soul of Empathy and Connectivity—a soft glow appeared, like calming ripples across water.
Then, from his back, a solid radiance burst forth like rugged stone, marking the return of the Soul of Resilience and Control. Baskara's breathing grew deep and slow, as if aligned with the earth's own rhythm.
From both of his hands, which trembled slightly while still folded in meditation, came a warm and bold energy—the Soul of Strength and Courage was merging once more. His body trembled briefly, not from weakness, but because the fire within him had begun to ignite again.