"Kak Dinda, I’m thirsty," Rizki whimpered.
She remembered a lesson from her late mother, a fisherwoman. "Lihat akar yang mengarah ke timur," she had said. "Mereka minum dari mata air tawar." Look for the roots that point east. They drink from a freshwater spring.
"Follow the leaning branches, Rizki. Like Papa’s boat leaning into the wind." malajuven
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.
Then she saw them: kunang-kunang —fireflies. But not just any fireflies. They gathered in a specific berembang tree, a species of mangrove apple tree her father loved. He had said, "Pokok berembang selalu tumbuh di tanah yang paling tinggi dan paling kering. Tempat selamat semasa air pasang besar." The berembang tree always grows on the highest, driest ground. A safe place during a king tide. "Kak Dinda, I’m thirsty," Rizki whimpered
Suddenly, a soft glow appeared through the trees. Not moonlight. Electric light. And voices—search and rescue volunteers calling their names.
It was the longest night of Dinda’s twelve-year-old life. The acrid smell of smoke still clung to her clothes, and the distant wail of emergency sirens had faded into an eerie, moonlit silence. She clutched her little brother, Rizki, who was shivering despite the tropical humidity. They were lost in the mangrove forest on the edge of their fishing village. "Mereka minum dari mata air tawar
If the berembang tree marked high ground, then the path to safety lay in the direction its branches leaned—away from the waterlogged basin.