1938
(Continued from Chapter 0011)
That afternoon, the sky began to stain the horizon with streaks of golden orange. The sun sank slowly, as if unable to bear witnessing the brutality that had just shattered the peace of a small house on the village outskirts. The evening wind whispered through the yard, sweeping over ashes and blackened embers. Yet it could not erase the acrid scent lingering in the air—the smell of burnt flesh, dried blood, and charred wood. The smell of death. The smell of despair.
Inside the half-burned house, in the corner of a room, stood an old wardrobe. Its wooden doors were tightly shut, but through a narrow crack, a pair of small eyes peeked out at the world with a vacant stare. Inside that darkness, an eight-year-old girl—Rika—huddled silently. Her body shook violently, not from the cold, but from a fear that gripped her bones. Her worn white dress was soaked with cold sweat and tears. Her small face was pale, lifeless. Her copper-red hair was tangled, falling over eyes swollen from too much crying.
She had seen everything.
Through the wardrobe crack, she watched her father's body collapse to the floor, beaten until motionless. She saw her mother dragged out of the house, her long hair yanked harshly. The scream… her mother's final scream… still echoed in Rika's mind. And that smile… that gentle, loving smile her mother gave just before a sharp blade severed her neck in their yard. Rika wanted to scream, to run, but her body froze. She could only bite her lip, holding back sobs that threatened to burst. She knew that if she made a sound… she too would be killed.
Days passed in darkness and silence. The wardrobe became her entire world. Rika did not eat; hunger was no match for the fear that clung to her tiny soul. She prayed in her heart—perhaps to her mother, perhaps to a God she barely understood. Sometimes she slept with her eyes open, and when she awoke, she hoped it had all been a nightmare. But it wasn't. Each morning, the scent of burning remained. She still felt the floor sticky with blood. She still heard the echoes of screams—her mother's, her father's, her own.
Exactly three days later, as dawn timidly crept over the eastern horizon, Rika summoned the courage that barely remained in her small body. Trembling, she pushed open the wardrobe door, which creaked softly. Morning light slipped in, stabbing her red, swollen eyes. She stood on shaky knees; her white dress was now stained deep brown and black, her copper-red hair hung wild and unkempt. Her small feet stepped slowly across the now-empty room. Every step felt like a battle against the world.
She emerged into the living room, where splashes of blood still stained the walls. The dining table was overturned. Her mother's teacup lay shattered on the floor. Her doll lay in the corner, partially charred. Rika picked it up and clutched it tightly. Her lips trembled.
"Why… why is everything gone?" she whispered, as if hoping the lifeless object in her arms could answer.
The soft morning light welcomed her. But what stretched before her was no peaceful sight. Instead, there was a pile of blackened ashes—the remnants of her parents' bodies. No headstones. No prayers. Only scorched earth and broken bones.
Rika froze. Her breath caught. She fell to her knees, clutching a handful of ash against her chest.
"Mom… Dad…" she sobbed. "Do… do you hate me too?"
She wept there, no longer silently, but with a scream full of grief that had been held back for three days and nights. The cry soared high, piercing the morning mist, reaching toward the heavens. Yet no one answered. No one came.
After her body could cry no more, Rika slowly rose. She wandered aimlessly, her steps unsteady, toward a nearby garden. Her last hope: humans. Adults. Anyone. She walked barefoot along the dirt road. Her eyes were empty, but a faint light remained in her heart—a tiny spark from her mother's last words, still faintly echoing in her memory:
"Keep smiling, Rika."
After gazing at the charred remains of her parents one last time, Rika dragged her small steps away from the house that could no longer be called a home. Her tattered white dress clung to her body, now wet with sweat and dust. Her copper-red hair, once smooth, was now matted and clumped. She trudged through the dusty village streets, dazed, her mouth unable to speak because her throat was dry and cracked.
Every person she approached, she looked at with hope. Faces once familiar as neighbors or her parents' acquaintances were now cold, blurred shadows. She reached out, her hoarse voice trying to say, "Please…" but no sound came. Her lips barely moved, and her eyes pleaded like a lost puppy. Yet what she received was not an embrace, not water, not protection.
It was spit.
One drop landed on her left cheek. Another on her forehead. Another on her shoulder. Insults followed, like a storm without mercy.
"You little devil…""Bring misfortune…!"
Rika froze. She stared at each face mocking her, without fully understanding their words. Her tongue was paralyzed. Her body exhausted. She just wanted to know… why did everyone hate her? Why was this happening?
She tried to speak, but her throat felt sliced by knives. Words would not come. Yet she kept moving forward—until, in the middle of the small village market, a man glared at her with disgust and approached angrily.
"I told you to stay away from us!"
Slap!
A sharp blow struck the side of her head. Rika's small body fell face-first into the dirt. Dust coated her hair and face, and before she could rise, a kick landed on her back.
"You cursed brat!"
People began to gather. Some laughed. Some just watched, as if this were a common afternoon spectacle. Just a little girl being punished… a girl with no one.
Two burly men then dragged Rika by her hair, roughly pulling her toward the village square. Her feet scraped against the rocky ground, leaving long scratches and open wounds. She tried to scream, struggle, cry, plead—but all in vain. Her voice was hoarse, her body weak, and the universe seemed to have abandoned her.
When she reached the center of the square, her small body was thrown like a sack of rice. She tumbled several times before lying still, gasping, face dusty, cheeks bruised, knees bleeding.
One of the men spat on the ground and said coldly:
"BURN."
That single word echoed like a death knell. As if on cue, other villagers began to shout:
"Burn! Burn! BURN!""She brings a curse to this village!"
Rika turned her weak head. Her eyes filled with tears and fear. She looked at each of them—faces she had known since childhood now transformed into faceless demons.
In a soft voice, she asked:
"Why…? What did I do…?"
No one answered. Only laughter, cheers, and the advancing steps of the men piling branches and wood around her.
But suddenly…
"ENOUGH!!!"
A deep, commanding voice rang out. All heads turned. From the west side of the square, an elderly man with a cane walked slowly but surely. His black robe flowed behind him. His hair was white, yet his eyes were sharp, full of authority and restrained anger. It was Mr. Tunggul, the village elder, a man respected by all—supposedly.
"You… are utterly barbaric!" he shouted, his voice trembling with rage.
He approached the fallen Rika, knelt gently, and touched the little girl's shoulder with care.
"Shame on you… Can't you see? She's only a child…"
"Bah, noisy!" the man who had thrown Rika spat back.
Mr. Tunggul's gaze pierced him.
"Your actions have brought misfortune upon this village! Your fear has made you lose your humanity. This child… knows nothing."
He turned to Rika. In a voice soft like a father speaking to his daughter, he said:
"Don't worry, little one… I will protect you."
Mr. Tunggul stood and faced the entire village.
"Disperse. This child is now my responsibility."
But suddenly—Bugh!
A hard punch landed on Mr. Tunggul's cheek. The man who had thrown Rika stood before him, face red.
"How dare you stop us?! You think the Nipons would approve of this?!" he hissed.
Mr. Tunggul only stepped back half a pace. His breathing was heavy, but his gaze remained steady.
"If so… then I will bear the consequences."
The crowd fell silent. Tension crackled like smoldering embers ready to ignite. Slowly, one by one, the villagers bowed their heads. They could not oppose his words. Though they hated Rika, they still feared the wrath of tradition.
One by one, they dispersed. Some grumbled. Some sneered and spat on the ground. But no one dared argue further.
Mr. Tunggul looked at Rika and extended his hand.
"Come, little one… stand up."
Rika stared at the hand, confused and scared, but there was something in Mr. Tunggul's eyes that made her heart tremble. That gaze… for the first time in three days, someone looked at her with compassion. She shivered, then finally took his hand. Warm… warm like her mother's embrace.
After the chaos in the village square that day, Mr. Tunggul took Rika to a small hut by the river, somewhat secluded from the village center. The hut was surrounded by tall grasses and bamboo trees that whispered softly in the wind. The gentle murmur of the river became a new rhythm to accompany Rika's days—a rhythm far calmer than the screams and cries that had filled her nights.
Mr. Tunggul and his wife, Mrs. Sari, were an elderly couple without children. They had long lived in quiet companionship with time and prayer. But since Rika's arrival, their home seemed to have a new life. At first, Rika regarded them with suspicion and fear. She slept hugging her knees in a corner, often waking in the middle of the night from nightmares, and was always frightened by loud sounds.
But Mrs. Sari was gentle. She never forced her. Each morning, she prepared warm porridge and sat a few meters away, waiting for the little girl to approach on her own. Day by day, the distance between them shrank. Eventually, Rika began eating alongside her, slowly calling "Mummy…" in a soft voice that brought tears to Mrs. Sari's eyes as she washed dishes.
Mr. Tunggul was a quiet fatherly figure, but his every action reflected protection. He often invited Rika to sit by the river in the afternoons, skipping flat stones across the water, teaching her how to make them "jump" several times. Rika never managed more than two skips, but whenever she failed, Mr. Tunggul would just smile and say,
"The important thing is to try, child. Even stones can dance if you are patient."
Rainy seasons came and went. So did harvests. Time passed, and Rika's emotional wounds slowly began to heal, though the scars remained. She began to laugh. A small, quiet laugh at first, growing gradually into a bright, joyful one. She started helping Mrs. Sari sweep the yard, wash clothes by the river, and grind spices in the small bamboo-walled kitchen.
Mrs. Sari even sewed a tiny sky-blue kebaya for Rika from fabric she had once saved for a daughter she never had. When Rika wore it for the first time, she stood awkwardly in front of a mirror, eyes wide, her now-growing copper hair neatly combed and clipped.
"You're so beautiful, my child…" whispered Mrs. Sari, hugging her from behind. For Rika, it felt like her mother's embrace—warm, gentle, and nonjudgmental.
Yet outside the hut, the world remained cruel. Though Rika began to heal within her small home, the village had not entirely forgotten the blood in her veins. The villagers no longer threw stones or punished her publicly, but whispers, sharp glances, and sneers still met her whenever she accompanied Mrs. Sari to the market or walked to the fields.
"That cursed londo child, huh?""Don't go near her, or you'll catch the curse too.""Even protected by the elder, she still dares to roam."
Those words stung like needles. But Rika no longer cried. She just lowered her head, smiled, and held Mrs. Sari's hand tightly. She knew that as long as that hand was there, she was not alone.
Mr. Tunggul recognized the heavy burden Rika still carried. So he began teaching her ancestral knowledge: how to brew herbal remedies from leaves, read the wind from the movement of trees, tell time from the sun's shadows. He said,
"One day, child… you will find someone who values and loves you as we do. When that day comes, take care of them…"
And Rika held those words in her heart.
A year had passed since that hellish night that had taken everything from her. She now stood taller, laughed more freely, though she still carried her wounds. Wounds that might never fully heal, but she had begun to embrace them as part of herself.
She was no longer the little girl huddled in a wardrobe.
She was now a small flower growing by the river, surrounded by sharp grasses and harsh glances, yet still blooming—because there was love in the soil beneath her feet.