Every year, during the month of Suro in the Javanese calendar, a faint scent of jasmine and clove cigarettes would drift down from the hill. And if you were foolish enough to walk past the house at midnight, you would see her: a woman in a blood-red kebaya, sitting on the front veranda, brushing her waist-length black hair.
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?"
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.
Then she pointed to a small, overgrown grave behind the gate—a grave with no name. "Besok, tolong bersihkan makamku. Dan tanamlah bunga merah." (Tomorrow, please clean my grave. And plant red flowers.)
But Reza was not what he seemed. He was already married in the capital. Worse, he was a gambler in debt to dangerous men. One night, after Dewi refused to give him her family's heirloom jewelry, a terrible argument broke out on the veranda of her house. In a fit of rage, Reza pushed her. Dewi stumbled backward, her red kebaya catching on the broken railing. She fell down the steep stone stairs, and the last thing she saw was the full moon turning red above the pine trees.