The Meeting at the Tea House

The tea house had once been a jewel of Old Jakarta, its carved teak pillars and gilded screens a testament to an era when power was brokered over steaming cups of kembang sepatu and honeyed lies. Now, its grandeur lay in ruins. Moss crept up the walls, devouring murals of Javanese folklore. Shattered porcelain crunched underfoot, and the air hung thick with the cloying sweetness of jasmine tea gone stale, mingling with the stench of mildew and rot. Moonlight speared through broken roof tiles, casting fractured shadows over the stained silk cushions where Mayang sat, her spine rigid, her hands clasped to still their trembling.