Behind the beautiful waves, a love that never fades—a wife waits for her husband and precious child to come home.
At the edge of a fishing village stood an old wooden hut with salt-stained walls. This was where Arman and Lestari lived. Their lives revolved around the sound of crashing waves and the cries of seagulls. Ten years after marrying, they were blessed with a daughter named Melati. Her round eyes shone like the full moon, and her laughter brought warmth to their humble home.
Every morning before sunrise, Arman rowed his worn-out boat into the sea. Lestari always waited at the dock, waving until the boat became a tiny dot on the horizon. Melati often stood beside her, clutching her mother’s scarf. “When will Father come back?” she’d ask. Lestari would smile and whisper, “Before sunset, my love.”
But one hot afternoon, when Melati was seven, that promise broke. That day, Melati followed her friends to the northern beach, where the water was clearer. “I want to learn to swim like Father!” she told Lestari before running off. The waves seemed calm, but the sea is never trustworthy. A wave as tall as a hill suddenly appeared, sweeping Melati’s small body away like a dry leaf.
For three days, villagers searched the coast. All they found was a blue hair ribbon caught on sharp rocks. Arman held the ribbon tightly, his eyes red with tears. From that day, the sea that once fed them became a monster hiding secrets.
“There’s still hope,” Arman whispered one night, his hand gently rubbing Lestari’s trembling back. But hope soon turned to obsession. Each morning, he carried a wooden doll he’d carved for Melati’s birthday—a gift he never got to give. He sailed farther, shouting her name until his voice cracked, returning sometimes with fish, sometimes with nothing but the soaked doll.
Lestari never stopped waiting at the dock. Her once-black hair turned gray by the third rainy season. One morning, she noticed Arman tying his fishing net with unusual care, as if preparing for a long journey.
“I’m going to the Black Coral Strait,” he said, avoiding her gaze. “A fisherman claims he saw a girl there…”
Lestari bit her lip until it bled. The strait was nicknamed “Dragon’s Belly” for its deadly waves. But she also saw the fading light in Arman’s eyes, like a lamp running out of oil.
That day, Arman returned early—no fish, no doll, just salt-crusted clothes and an empty stare. “I heard her voice,” he muttered, gripping Lestari’s shoulders painfully. “She called me ‘Father’ from under the water…”
The next day, he sailed out again. And again. Until one evening, as the west wind blew, Lestari waited until the moon rose high. The boat never returned.
Neighbors found broken wood near the Black Coral Strait and a scrap of blue cloth—the same color Arman had worn that morning. Lestari sewed the cloth onto her nightdress, just as she’d once stitched the knee Melati scraped falling from a mango tree.
Now, two empty graves stand behind the hut: one large with a carved boat, one small with a ribbon. Lestari still visits the dock at dawn, staring at the horizon. She brings two meals: yellow rice for Arman and caramel candies for Melati.
Young fishermen offer fresh catches, but Lestari only takes the smallest. “For my child,” she says softly, as if Melati were still seven, eating fried fish with messy hands.
On nights when the east wind blows, neighbors hear a lullaby drifting from the hut—the same one Melati loved, now sung for two souls lost to the sea.
The waves still crash. The sea stays blue. And Lestari keeps waiting, for in her broken heart, waiting is the only way to keep them close.
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