Kliwon did not remember walking back to the guest house.
He only remembered the boy with the mirror, the twisted reflection, the crow skull that cracked in his hands, and the house that vanished behind him. After that, everything blurred into a gray fog—both inside his mind and across the village. When he blinked again, he was inside, kneeling before his notebook, though he hadn't opened it. His camera stood idle, its battery drained despite having been charged.
There was silence.
But not peace.
The silence here was like a lid clamped tight over a simmering pot—tense, strained, unnatural. As if the very village held its breath.
Kliwon stood and opened the window.
The rice fields were still.
And yet, something had changed. He didn't see it at first, but he felt it in his spine, in the soles of his feet. A new structure had appeared on the edge of the village. He hadn't noticed it the day before.
A tree.
It shouldn't have been there—he was certain of that. He had walked that path. Filmed it. The land had been clear, except for stakes with tattered cloths tied to them. Now, in their place, stood a towering waru tree with roots like claws and bark blackened as if by fire. No leaves grew from its gnarled limbs. Instead, dozens of cages hung from its branches.
Inside each: feathers. Bones. Tiny carvings of human figures with hollow eyes.
And at the base of the tree, encircled by red stones, stood an altar.
It was made of old timber—withered, wet with blood not yet dry. Offerings had been placed there: broken eggs, severed bird wings, a child's sandal, an empty bowl with a cracked rim.
Kliwon's breath hitched. He grabbed his notebook and camera and stepped outside.
The village had become quieter still.
As he walked, the villagers did not greet him. They did not look at him. But they moved, slowly, almost ritualistically—sweeping steps, swaying motions, carrying bundles wrapped in black cloth to corners of their homes, under trees, into the wells. Preparing for something.
Not celebration.
Not mourning.
But anticipation.
The tree loomed closer.
Each step felt heavier, as though the earth tried to hold him back. The sky, although not cloudy, had dulled into a colorless hue—as if all light had been strained through ash.
A boy sat near the altar, carving a crow from wood.
Not the same boy from the rice fields—this one looked older. Thinner. His eyes reflected no light.
When Kliwon approached, the boy didn't flinch.
"What is this place?" he asked.
The boy didn't answer.
"Is this where they do the ritual?"
Still, silence.
But then the boy held up the carving and whispered—not to Kliwon, but to the air, as if repeating a phrase not his own:
> "One must be buried to feed the crows.
> One must be burned to call the wings.
> One must be eaten to open the gate."
Kliwon knelt slowly, notebook on his lap.
"What is the gate?"
The boy finally looked at him, and for the first time, Kliwon saw—his pupils were shaped like crescent moons.
"The one beneath the tree knows."
"Who is that?"
"The one you carry."
Kliwon froze. "What do you mean?"
But the boy was no longer there.
The carving remained, lying where he had sat.
Kliwon picked it up. The crow's head was carved backward, and in place of eyes were tiny feathers wedged into hollow sockets.
Suddenly, the air turned thick—like wet gauze wrapping his skin.
A sound rose from the base of the tree. Not a voice. Not an animal.
A whisper. Dozens of whispers, layered and low. Names. Phrases. Pieces of memories.
His name, among them.
"Kliwon…"
He turned toward the altar.
It was no longer empty.
A figure had appeared there—sitting cross-legged. Head bowed. Wrapped in tattered white cloth that pulsed as if breathing.
A mask made of crow bones covered its face.
Its hands were human—but reversed. Palms faced outward, fingers curled inward like claws.
Kliwon stepped back, stumbling.
But the figure did not move.
It spoke—not aloud, but inside his mind, pressing like thorns behind his eyes.
> "You saw the watcher.
> You touched the relic.
> You broke the bone of memory.
> You have begun."
"What am I supposed to do?" Kliwon whispered.
> "Feed us.
> Finish what she couldn't.
> The feast must resume."
"I don't understand…"
> "Then listen."
The world shifted.
Kliwon's surroundings melted—not into nothingness, but into memory. He was still in the village, but the sky was red. The tree was younger. The altar smaller. And people were gathered—dancing, chanting, dressed in white with crow feathers tied to their hair.
A woman stood at the center.
His mother.
Younger. Beautiful. But her face held a quiet terror.
She held something in her hands—a black cloth bundle.
A baby.
Kliwon's chest clenched.
"No…"
The crowd circled her. Chanting. Hands outstretched. They took the baby. Laid it at the altar. A fire burned nearby. The mask-wearing figure stood beside it, nodding once.
But the woman moved fast. She grabbed a handful of ash and threw it into the fire.
The flame screamed—yes, screamed—and turned blue.
The villagers staggered.
The masked one howled.
She scooped the baby back into her arms and ran.
The vision cracked like glass. Kliwon fell to his knees.
The whispers returned.
> "She stopped the feast.
> The hunger never ceased.
> Now it grows in you."
"What are you?"
The figure raised its head.
Behind the crow mask, darkness moved.
Not absence.
Presence.
So old, it made time itself recoil.
> "We are what they feared.
> We are what they fed.
> We are what you carry in your name."
Kliwon's vision blurred. He heard wings beating—not outside, but inside his skull.
Then—
Darkness.
He awoke in the guest house, gasping, shirt soaked with sweat.
On hi
s chest lay the crow carving.
And beneath it, a single sentence carved into the floorboards:
"Night falls. Prepare the fire."