“Exodus”

Morning came pale and colourless. The mist that had choked the camp for days now drifted lazily across the lake, soft as breath. The survivors stood near the edge of the broken bridge, their faces hollow from exhaustion. Every sound seemed too sharp, from the creaking of the wet wood to the faint echo of water lapping against the stilts of the empty tents.

Pak Santosa gripped the frayed rope of the suspension bridge and tested it. The wood was slick with mud and moss, the planks bending under each step. “One at a time,” he said quietly. “No one looks down.”

The others nodded. They began to cross slowly, inch by inch, over the gray water that hid whatever still moved beneath. The bridge swayed gently, and every shift of wind brought the faint smell of rot from the swamp.

Behind them, the glamping site was eerily calm. The vines had receded, leaving only shredded canvas and dark stains on the soil. Smoke from a dying campfire curled into the mist like a final whisper.

Dinda looked back once. “It’s quiet now.”

Adi, walking beside her, kept his eyes straight ahead. “Too quiet.”

Halfway across the bridge, someone slipped. The plank cracked underfoot, splashing water upward. The entire group froze. No one spoke. Then a deep croak rolled through the valley, echoing off the tea fields like distant thunder.

Everyone turned toward the lake.

The surface was rippling again. Something moved beneath, slow and massive. The reflection of the mist seemed to pulse, darkening, until a faint green light shimmered from below.

Pak Santosa tightened his grip on the ropes. “Move! Now!”

They hurried across, each step faster than the last. The bridge creaked and swayed, but somehow held. When Dinda reached the other side, she fell to her knees, clutching the wet soil.

She looked up just as the light beneath the water flared. For a second, a giant shape appeared beneath the surface. She could see its eyes glowing faintly, watching them go. Then, as quickly as it came, the glow sank back into the depths.

By the time everyone crossed, the fog had begun to lift. The morning light broke through, casting golden streaks across the tea fields. The air smelled cleaner, fresher, as though the land itself had exhaled.

The survivors stood in silence, staring back at what was once Glamping by the Lake. It looked smaller now, almost fragile against the backdrop of the forest and water.

The guide spoke softly, almost to himself. “It is done.”

Pak Santosa nodded. “We’ll tell the owners to shut it down. No one will stay here again.”

“They will not listen,” the guide replied. “People never do. They will clean it up, take pictures, and invite new guests. They will say it was only a storm.”

Dinda looked up at him. “And what will happen if they come back?”

The guide met her eyes. “Then it will rise again. The land always remembers.”

The group began to make their way down the dirt path toward the main road. Their shoes sank into the wet earth with every step. In the distance, they could hear the faint hum of traffic returning to the valley.

Dinda walked behind her parents, glancing back one last time. The mist was nearly gone now, revealing the green hills rolling toward the horizon. The tea plants shimmered under the morning sun, their leaves wet with dew. For a moment, the place looked beautiful again. Peaceful.

But she knew better.

As the family reached the bend in the trail, Dinda paused. She heard something. A sound almost too soft to notice at first.

A single, low croak.

It came from the direction of the lake.

She turned slowly, scanning the valley below. The glamping site was still; nothing was moving. But across the water, near the far bank, ripples began to spread in small circles.

The croak came again, deeper this time.

Dinda’s father called out, “Come on, Dinda.”

She looked at him, then back toward the lake. “I heard it again.”

“It’s just the frogs,” he said gently, though his voice was tight. “Let’s go.”

She nodded and followed him up the hill. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that the sound wasn’t from a frog at all. It felt heavier. Older. Like the land itself was alive and breathing just beneath the surface.

At the top of the hill, the family stopped to catch their breath. From there, they could see the full stretch of the valley, the glamping site sitting like a wound at its center. A gentle breeze rolled through the tea fields, rustling the leaves in waves.

The sun broke through the clouds, warm and bright. For a moment, it almost felt normal again.

Then the wind shifted.

The leaves trembled, moving in a strange rhythm, as if responding to something below. The ripple moved through the fields like a slow heartbeat.

Pak Santosa placed a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “It’s over.”

Dinda forced a smile. “Yeah.”

But as they turned toward the road, she heard it one last time. That deep, hollow croak that rolled through the hills and faded into silence.

The tea leaves swayed once more, then stilled.

The land had its peace back for now.