Unfinished Prayers

The morning after I said her name, the silence changed. It wasn't empty anymore. It listened. Every footstep inside the villa echoed like I was walking through something alive, something ancient that had just awakened. The walls seemed to pulse with every breath I took, and the air, though still, responded to every sound like it had been waiting to hear them for centuries.

There were whispers now. Not loud. Not clear. But persistent. They lingered just behind the veil of hearing, like the villa itself was reciting fragments of something long buried, long forgotten.

I sat down at the desk. The shard—still etched with her name: Nyana—rested on my journal. When I touched it, a weight settled on my shoulders. Not fear. Not dread. Just an awareness that I wasn't alone.

So I asked, aloud but softly, "What do you want me to do next?"

No voice replied. But I felt my hand begin to move. It wasn't entirely mine. My fingers opened the journal, flipped to a blank page, and began writing. Not words I thought. Words that came through me.

"Go to where they buried her voice."

I stared at the sentence for minutes. I didn't understand it. But my legs moved on their own. I left the villa, still barefoot, guided only by something that wasn't logic.

Behind the outer garden wall was a narrow path I had never seen before. It was choked with vines, hidden beneath overlapping banana leaves. It shouldn't have been visible. But today, it was.

I stepped into the path.

The further I went, the heavier the air became. The trees hung low as if listening. My skin prickled. Something in the earth below recognized me, or at least, recognized her within me.

Then I saw it.

A small shrine. Crumbled, broken, half-swallowed by jungle roots. But unmistakably sacred. A ceremonial Barong mask, shattered down the center, lay atop the stone platform. Its mouth cracked open, as though mid-scream. Dried petals and ashes littered the ground.

This was it.

This was where they had tried to erase her.

I knelt before it. And when my knees touched the soil, the chant returned. The same one from my dream. But louder now. Clearer. It didn't come from outside. It rose from within.

The ground beneath me warmed with something ancient. My breath caught. I opened the journal and placed the shard on the altar stone.

Wind pushed through the trees. The jungle exhaled.

And then, I heard the voice—not hers, but something older.

"She sang for those who never answered. You must finish her prayer."

I returned to the villa. My body ached like I had traveled far. I felt hollowed, like a vessel waiting to be filled.

At dusk, I prepared an offering. Not just flowers and incense, but memory. I placed the canang sari near the mirror, careful and deliberate, just as I had seen Pak Wayan do before. Each petal arranged. Each grain of rice chosen. Sandalwood burned in the air.

Then I stood before the mirror.

My reflection was there. Ordinary. But when I blinked—just once—it was gone.

In its place, a vast darkness. A void. And in it, she stood. Still. Her white dress moved though no wind touched it. Her hair was parted just enough to show her eyes.

They were not accusing. They were tired.

She held out her hands.

I didn't speak. I didn't run. I placed my hand against the glass.

And through that point of contact, a sound entered me. Not a voice. A melody. Wordless, mournful. Ancient.

I began to hum it. Quiet at first, then fuller, as if my chest had always known the tune. The mirror fogged with breath. Mine? Hers? Both?

The song carried weight. With each note, I saw flickers—images behind my eyes: women kneeling in a circle; smoke rising from altars; a river painted red not with blood, but with broken pigment.

Then, her voice entered me.

"Not finished. Never finished. They broke it. Complete me."

The next morning, I left early. I knew where I needed to go.

There was a temple I had seen many times in dreams but never in reality. I found it after walking north past the market, past the known trails, deep under the cover of banyan roots. It was there, silent and untouched. Locals had warned me to stay away, but I had stopped listening to warnings. I was no longer just a visitor.

Inside the temple, time warped. The air was thick, unmoving. I could feel my pulse slowing, as if matching an older rhythm. Carvings lined the walls—grotesque, beautiful, precise. They weren't decorations. They were seals.

I walked to the center.

There, beneath the broken ceiling, lay a forgotten altar. Moss-covered. Weather-worn. I placed the shard upon it.

Cold spread across the stone like frost. Shadows gathered. From the edge of vision, she appeared. Not behind glass. Not in dreams.

She stood across from me. Her face fully visible.

And I gasped.

Because she looked like everyone I'd met since arriving—Pak Wayan, the fruit seller, even the girl from the yoga retreat. Her face was a collage of fragments, stitched from the memories of those who had once seen her, who had chosen to forget.

She was everyone and no one.

She began to hum again. The same melody. This time, louder.

I joined her.

The temple trembled.

Dust fell from the rafters. Vines cracked. A hidden door somewhere creaked open. Not physically. But within me.

She reached for me.

When our fingers touched, the air collapsed inward. I fell—not physically—but through memory.

I saw the ritual.

The circle of priests. The girl at the center. Bound, not with rope, but with prayer. Their chants weren't for salvation. They were seals. Word-cages.

She had seen something they couldn't understand—truth too raw, too wild. So they silenced her. Not out of hatred. Out of fear.

They sealed her beneath the shrine. They told no one. And the shrine was left to rot.

But her voice? It found cracks. It seeped through.

It reached me.

I screamed—not in fear, but in recognition.

I screamed her truth.

And with each syllable, she stepped closer to freedom.

My body convulsed. My breath caught. But I didn't stop. I let the words pour out.

I don't know what I said. I don't speak Balinese. But the language spoke through me. A voice long buried. Unbroken.

Her form shimmered.

She smiled.

And for the first time, she closed her eyes—not in sorrow, but in peace.

She touched my forehead.

And whispered:

"Now... they will remember."

I collapsed. When I opened my eyes, the temple was bright. Quiet.

The shard was gone.

The altar, cleaned.

The carvings had softened. No longer grotesque—just solemn.

I walked back to the villa in silence. And for the first time, the silence was real. Natural. The kind that comes after a storm.

The mirrors reflected only me. The shadows kept to their corners. The wind moved without messages.

That night, I slept.

Truly slept.

But every evening, before I close my eyes, I whisper her name:

Nyana.

Not to summon.

To honor.

Because some spirits don't haunt.

They wait.

And when someone listens—really listens—they sing again.

And all they ask is that you finish the song.

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