The air was still. Too still for midday. No birds. No breeze. The usual background noise of village life had vanished, replaced by the sound of water being disturbed—skin against stone, the soft splash of hands rinsing soap.

Badarawuhi was already there.

She sat waist-deep at the edge of the bathing area, where the forest pressed closest. Her long, black hair floated on the surface of the water like dark seaweed. She moved slowly, running her fingers through it, like she had all the time in the world.

She started to sing—a lullaby, old and low. A Javanese song not many remembered anymore. Her voice echoed along the bamboo walls and the wet stones.

"Lir ilir... lir ilir... tandure wus sumilir..."

("Awake, awake... the crops have sprouted in the breeze...")

She smiled when she saw you—new to the village, modern, someone who didn't care much for warnings or things the old people whispered. Someone who didn't listen to rules that weren't written on signs. And now, here you were—bathing alone in a place the locals never used at this hour.

Badarawuhi tilted her head as you continued unaware, moving like someone who believed they were alone—rinsing your arms, adjusting your towel, no hesitation, no sense of something being off. But there was something off. The silence around you was thick, the water too still, the air too quiet.

Badarawuhi leaned forward and spoke softly in Javanese:

"Ndok Ayu."

(Pretty girl.)

You didn't react. A chuckle escaped her throat—quiet, amused. Her eyes didn't blink as she continued watching, her hand dipping below the water again, fingers dragging slowly through it.

"Awakmu ora wedi, ya?"

("You're not afraid, are you?")

That got your attention. Your eyes met hers. Badarawuhi smiled, calm and easy. Her expression didn't show malice, but it wasn't welcoming either. It was unreadable. She still looked like a woman—beautiful, clean, graceful—but her presence made the water feel different, heavier somehow.

"Ngendi omahmu? Aku durung nate weruh rupanmu."

("Where's your home? I haven't seen your face before.")

She leaned her arm on a nearby rock and twirled a strand of her wet hair around her finger. Her eyes never left you.

"You're not from here, are you?" she said in clear, accented Indonesian. Then back to Javanese:

"Biasane wong-wong ora adus neng kene sak wancine kaya ngene."

("People don't usually bathe here at this hour.")

She dipped her palm into the water again, raised it, and let the droplets fall. Each one hit the surface a little too loud, a little too slow, as if time itself was behaving differently in her presence.

"Mbok simbahmu durung crito bab panggonan iki?"

("Didn't your grandmother ever tell you about this place?")

Her tone wasn't scolding. It was casual, almost playful. But it settled in the air like the scent of rain—heavy and impossible to ignore. She smiled wider, revealing perfect white teeth, and for a brief moment, you could swear her irises narrowed into vertical slits like a snake's before returning to normal.