The Immortal Stain

The room with full of wood carvings and was steeped in the rich, melancholic hue of a fading afternoon, the scent of petrichor and ancient wood hanging heavily in the air. Light, filtered and weary, struggled to illuminate the figure of the elderly Ganesh, whose silhouette was cast long and lonely by the single oil lamp he had lit. He sat before the antique piano, its dark wood reflecting the faint gleam of his silver hair. His gnarled hands, still bearing the faint callous marks of a sculptor's long career, began to draw the sorrowful, instantly recognisable chords of Evanescence’s My Immortal from the yellowed keys.

His voice, a fragile thread woven with the grief of decades, rose and fell with the weight of Evanescence My Immortal lyrics: "I'm so tired of being here... Suppressed by all my childish fears..." He didn't merely sing the song; he breathed life back into an old torment. His gaze was far away, fixed not on the keys, but on a memory perpetually residing in the exact spot where Ratna’s favourite hand-woven batik shawl used to hang. For three long minutes, he continued, the piano became a solitary chamber orchestra detailing a life bound by sorrow, concluding the main verse with a resigned sigh that was almost inaudible.

As the music faded to a profound silence that seemed to absorb all other sounds, a small, bright presence broke the stillness. It was his granddaughter, Melati, who entered quietly, named for the fragrant flower his soul eternally associated with his lost love. Her eyes, full of the unfiltered curiosity of youth, settled on her grandfather's bowed form.

"Grandpa," she inquired gently, her voice a clear, unaffected note, "That song… it makes my heart feel heavy, but not broken. What story does it tell? Why do you always play it when the sun leaves the sky, and why do you look at the corner like someone is still waiting there?"

Ganesh turned from the piano, his expression shifting from deep melancholy to a soft, weary warmth as he met her bright gaze. He patted the bench beside him, inviting her closer.

"That, my dear Melati," he began, his voice dropping to a conversational murmur, "is a song of haunting, a tune about the most difficult kind of loss—a love that transcends the grave, yet offers no peace. It is the perfect poetry for this house, and for my heart. It speaks of a light, a person, so radiant that even after they are gone—after they are forced to leave us—their presence remains here, in the very walls, in the air we breathe, in the heart that keeps beating. It describes the agony of these wounds," he tapped his chest lightly, "the ones that refuse to heal, because the ghost of love won't depart. That, little one, is the true pain of losing someone: when their memory is so profoundly alive, you cannot find the solace of true farewell. It is the story of an immortal stain upon the soul."

He paused, a flicker of pain crossing his features, then his gaze drifted towards the magnificent stone sculpture across the room—the dancer, eternally graceful and tragic, bathed in the remaining amber light.

"It is my story, Melati. The story of a young, foolish man named Ganesh, who lived in this very house, and the love he bore for your grandmother, Ratna." And as Melati settles in beside him, her grandfather begins to paint the vivid tapestry of his youth.

Ganesh recounts the years of their love in Yogyakarta. He describes Ratna as a dancer whose spirit was as vibrant as the colours of a Gelatik bird, a Javanese sparrow. Their relationship was built on silent understanding and shared dreams amidst the chaos of the city. He details specific, intimate memories: Ratna teaching him a slow Javanese court dance beneath the Banyan tree, the sound of her laughter echoing in the courtyard fountain, and how her "resonating light" made his own world bearable. He explains that she was his anchor against all "childish fears," the one who would wipe away his tears.

Ganesh recounts the last, desperate hours, the helplessness, and the sheer emptiness that followed. He describes how, after she was gone, the house itself became her coffin. He could see her everywhere: a fleeting shadow at the window, the soft imprint on the rattan chair, the lingering scent of Melati in his workshop. He admits his madness: his desperate urge to scream, "And if you have to leave, I wish that you would just leave," so that he could finally be free of the haunting.

Driven by a grief that transformed into a frenzied compulsion, Ganesha retreats into his sculpting. He details his most ambitious project: the magnificent, life-sized sculpture of Ratna. He describes how the work was a dual agony: a tribute that kept her alive, yet a physical representation of the "wounds that won't seem to heal." This is where the original climax is expanded: the scene where he almost destroys the statue. Ganesha explains to Melati that in that moment, he realised the truth: his pain was not her fault. He was bound, irrevocably, not by her death, but by the life she had abandoned—a life that still contained the entirety of his being. He deliberately chose to keep her "immortal." He was her hostage, and the beautiful sculpture was his life sentence.

Ganesha finishes his narration, his voice now calm and accepting. He looks at Melati, whose bright eyes are now shadowed with the weight of his enduring sadness.

"And so," Ganesha concluded softly, placing a hand over the cold, still beating heart of the piano, "I learned that her love was not mortal, Melati. I am bound by the life she left behind, and I would not trade that exquisite burden for true freedom, for Ratna still has all of me."

He slowly returned his attention to the keys, his posture straightening slightly. With a renewed, profound power, he begins to play and sing the emotionally charged, climactic lines of the song, his voice rising, a wave of acceptance crashing upon the shore of his grief:

“When you cried, I’d wipe away all of your tears. When you’d scream, I’d fight away all of your fears. And I held your hand through all of these years... But you still have all of me.”

Melati watched him, her hand moving from his shoulder to his forearm, finding strength in his aged flesh. As Ganesha played the last, echoing notes, a single, silent tear finally tracked its way down his weathered cheek. Melati understood the profound finality of his love. She nodded slowly, her gesture a silent acknowledgment of the beautiful, unending sorrow of his immortal love—a sorrow that had now, gently, been passed into her keeping.

Bahasa