The soft rustle of silk curtains and the distant hum of birds greeted Ayunda as she woke up. The familiar scent of sandalwood wafted through her room, grounding her more and more in this world she was learning to call home. Her mother entered gracefully, a gentle smile illuminating her face.
"Today is special, Ayunda," her mother said, sitting beside her. "There is a royal ceremony at the palace, and you must attend with us."
Ayunda's heart skipped a beat. A ceremony at the palace? The thought of seeing the royal court filled her with curiosity and nervousness. She nodded quietly, her mind racing with memories of ancient dramas she used to binge-watch—grand halls, intricate dances, and royal splendor. Now, it was real.
The family carriage rolled through bustling streets towards the palace. Ayunda peeked out, taking in the sights: vendors selling fragrant flowers, craftsmen displaying ornate batik fabrics, and children playing by the roadside. Her brother, Bayu Kusuma, pointed out landmarks, his eyes bright with excitement.
As they entered the palace grounds, Ayunda's breath caught. The grand hall was adorned with golden carvings and intricate tapestries. Soft gamelan music filled the air, a melodic hum that resonated deep within her. Nobles in elaborate garments gathered, exchanging formal bows and soft-spoken greetings.
She watched, captivated, as dancers in vivid sarongs moved in synchronized elegance, their arms weaving stories of gods and heroes. Offerings of fruits, flowers, and incense were laid in ornate golden trays, part of a ritual to honor the ancestors and divine spirits.
Ayunda's eyes followed every movement, every note of the music. This was more than a spectacle; it felt like a dream brought to life. The dances mirrored scenes from the ancient dramas she had loved, but now she wasn't a spectator—she was part of this world.
"I'm really here," she thought, feeling a strange mix of awe and disbelief. This kingdom, once just an imagined place on a screen, was her reality now. And for the first time, she felt a spark of belonging.
That evening, the family gathered in the main hall. The air was filled with the warmth of flickering oil lamps. Her father, a man of quiet dignity, spoke about the ceremony.
"This kingdom thrives on harmony, Ayunda," he said, his voice steady. "Tri Hita Karana—balance between the divine, the people, and nature. It is the heart of Majapahit."
Her mother added, "These ceremonies remind us of our roots and our duties. To our ancestors, our land, and each other."
Ayunda listened intently, absorbing every word. It was so different from the cutthroat world she had left behind, where balance and harmony were luxuries, not expectations.
As the stories unfolded, Ayunda felt a warmth she had never known in her past life. This family, this culture—they weren't just remnants of history. They were alive, vibrant, and full of meaning.
Sitting there, listening to her father and mother, she realized she wasn't just passing through this life. She was becoming part of it. The peace she longed for in her previous life seemed within reach here, not in grand ambitions but in simple moments—like this one, with her family.
Maybe this is what I was meant to find, she thought, a quiet resolve settling in her heart.