Night in Wamena felt quieter than usual. Fog hung between the trees, and the wind that usually carried the sounds of insects now carried only silence. Yohwa lay on a woven mat, eyes open, staring at the wooden ceiling of his home. He hadn't slept since touching the cracked stone again. The vibration he felt still lingered in his chest, like an echo refusing to fade.
As his eyes slowly closed, the world shifted.
He stood in the middle of a stone field he didn't recognize. The sky above was dark—not night, but a space without time. Around him, massive stones stood tall, each carved with symbols that felt unfamiliar yet strangely familiar. A faint light pulsed from cracks in the ground, forming a path that led to a single figure in the distance.
The figure was tall, cloaked in smoke and light. Its face was hidden, but its eyes burned like embers. It didn't walk—it approached, drawn by the same resonance.
"Yohwa," the voice echoed—not from its mouth, but from within his mind.
"Who are you?" Yohwa asked, his voice trembling.
"I am Sira. A spirit guarded by stone. I come not to give answers, but to awaken memory."
Yohwa swallowed. "Why me?"
"Because you remember," Sira replied. "And because the world begins to forget."
Sira raised a hand, and from the air appeared a necklace—made of small carved stones slowly rotating, each glowing faintly. "This is the Soul Carving. It is not a tool. It is a key. When you wear it, you do not become a hero. You become a mirror."
Yohwa took the necklace. As his fingers touched the small stones, he saw flashes: an old man carving stone while weeping, a child touching a glowing rock and laughing, a woman singing before a radiant stone. These memories weren't his, yet he felt them as if he had lived them.
"Kelam will come," said Sira. "It is not an enemy. It is a wound. And wounds cannot be killed. They can only be remembered."
Yohwa wanted to ask more, but the world began to crack. The stones around him slowly shattered, and the light began to shrink. Sira stepped back, his eyes still burning.
"When you wake, you will know. But remember—light is not yours. It belongs to all who dare to remember."
Yohwa awoke, gasping. In his hand, the necklace was there. Real. Heavy. Warm.
And outside his home, the fog began to move. As if it knew a new guardian had risen.