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They walked for an hour, sometimes sinking to their knees in mud, sometimes climbing over fallen logs. The fireflies became their lanterns, guiding them from one berembang tree to the next. Dinda’s mind was a storm, but her hands were steady. She was a malajuven —a young mangrove guardian. Not by title, but by blood and memory.

Dinda looked at the mud on her legs, the knife in her hand, the fading fireflies. She thought of her father’s words, her mother’s lessons. malajuven

Suddenly, a soft glow appeared through the trees. Not moonlight. Electric light. And voices—search and rescue volunteers calling their names. They walked for an hour, sometimes sinking to

"Follow the leaning branches, Rizki. Like Papa’s boat leaning into the wind." They walked for an hour

"Kak Dinda, I’m thirsty," Rizki whimpered.