"Anak muda," the priest said, "you have broken a curse that lasted eighty years. Dewi can finally rest."
Ari turned around to respond, but the back seat was empty. Only a single red jasmine flower lay on the seat, still wet with rain.
She looked up. Rain dripped from her pale face, but her eyes were dry. She nodded and got into the back seat. For twenty minutes, the only sound was the wipers brushing against the windshield and the soft rustle of her silk kebaya.
Her name was Dewi, and this is her story.
Ari slammed the brakes. His heart pounded. But instead of fear, he felt a strange sadness. She was not threatening—she looked lost. He rolled down the window and asked, "Ibu… are you okay? Do you need a ride?"