Lawang Sigotaka

Chapter 1

The first rays of dawn crept over the horizon, casting long shadows across the ancient stones of Borobudur. Dimas stood at the edge of the temple's highest terrace, looking out over the mist-shrouded jungle. The air was thick with the heady scent of frangipani, mingling with the faint trace of incense that clung to the temple's ancient stones. It was as if the scent had soaked into the stone over centuries of offerings and prayers. The temple, though silent, hummed with an energy that felt alive an energy that Dimas could almost hear, like the low murmur of voices from another time.

He took a deep breath, trying to steady his mind. There was something about this place that made time seem irrelevant, as if the temple existed outside of the normal flow of hours and days. Dimas had visited Borobudur before, but this time was different. He felt a reverence, mixed with a deep awe, that left him almost trembling. The temple wasn't just a relic of the past it was a living entity, a place where the boundaries between the physical world and the spiritual realm blurred. And Dimas could feel that connection as if the stones themselves were whispering secrets of the universe into his ears.

As he began his descent from the terrace, his footsteps echoed against the worn stones, adding a rhythm to the silence that hung over the temple. Each step felt like a journey into the past, each echo a reminder of the countless pilgrims who had walked this path before him, their devotion etched into the very stones beneath his feet. The carvings on the walls, depicting scenes from the Buddha's life, seemed to come alive as he passed them, their figures caught in a perpetual dance between history and myth.

Dimas paused in front of a particularly intricate panel, his fingers brushing against the cool stone. The figures carved into the wall seemed to shift under his touch, their eyes following him, their expressions changing subtly as if they were aware of his presence. It was an illusion, of course, the result of shadows and the play of light, but Dimas couldn't shake the feeling that the temple was watching him that it had been waiting for him.

"Borobudur," he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper. "What secrets do you hold?"

The temple, naturally, offered no answer. But in the stillness, Dimas could almost hear the faintest of whispers voices carried on the wind, or perhaps the echoes of those who had once walked these stones. The sensation sent a shiver down his spine, but it also filled him with a strange sense of peace, as if he was exactly where he was meant to be.

He continued his descent, moving slowly, as if drawn by an unseen force. The air grew warmer as he descended, the early morning chill giving way to the rising sun. The mist began to dissipate, revealing the lush greenery that surrounded the temple. But even as the world around him came into sharper focus, the sense of mystery that clung to Borobudur remained. Dimas could feel it in every breath he took, in every stone he touched.

As he reached the lower terraces, he encountered a small group of monks, their saffron robes bright against the gray stone. They moved silently, their heads bowed in meditation, their bare feet barely making a sound on the ancient stones. One of the monks, an older man with deep-set eyes and a serene expression, looked up as Dimas approached. Their eyes met, and for a moment, Dimas felt as if the monk could see straight into his soul, reading his thoughts, his fears, his desires.

"Selamat pagi," the monk greeted him, his voice soft yet resonant.

"Selamat pagi," Dimas replied, bowing his head slightly in respect.

The monk's eyes held his for a moment longer before he returned to his meditation, his attention turning inward once more. Dimas watched him for a moment, wondering what it was like to live with such calm, such certainty. He envied the monk's serenity, the quiet confidence that seemed to radiate from him like light.