The scent of fine dust and freshly worked marble clung to Regi’s studio, a familiar comfort. He leaned closer to 'The Expectant Mother,' his breath misting faintly on the cool stone. A tiny vein, almost invisible, needed smoothing just above the statue’s left eyebrow. His calloused thumb brushed over the area, feeling for any imperfection. Every curve, every plane, spoke of countless hours, of obsession, of a quiet, desperate need for perfection. The statue gazed back with eyes that were not carved, but seemed to possess a depth, a waiting. He’d spent weeks on that gaze alone, trying to capture the subtle blend of hope and trepidation that came with new life. He’d poured everything into her, a vessel of his own unspoken fears, his profound desire to protect. Regi took a step back. The pregnant woman stood over six feet tall, her belly swelling with life, her hands gently cradling the curve. Her posture was one of quiet strength, a defiance against the unknown. It was his masterpiece, he knew it. The most lifelike thing he had ever created. Too lifelike, maybe. He ran a hand through his perpetually messy dark hair. A shiver, not from the studio’s cool air, traced its way down his spine. The way the light caught her features, the delicate line of her jaw, the slight parting of her lips—it was almost as if she might sigh. He shook his head. Too many late nights, too much coffee. "Lo gila, Reg," he muttered to himself, a low chuckle escaping him. *You're crazy, Reg.* But the feeling persisted, an echo of something he couldn't quite name. He picked up a soft brush, dusting away a stray speck from her granite hair. The details were crucial, the tiny strands, the faint hint of a smile that played on her lips. He imagined her breathing, her chest rising and falling. It was a sculptor’s ultimate goal, to breathe life into stone, but this felt different. More profound. More unsettling. He thought of his brothers, of Fijay, just seventeen, still so innocent. He thought of Gibran, Dika, Fajar. Always under his wing, always his responsibility. The weight of that responsibility was often heavy, a familiar ache in his chest. This sculpture, in its very essence, was a tribute to life, to protection, to what he sought to safeguard. Regi circled the piece one last time, his eyes scrutinizing every angle. The slight tilt of her head, as if listening. The way her tunic draped, hinting at the curve of her collarbone. He paused at her left hand, the fingers delicately spread, resting on her stomach. The fingernails, meticulously polished, gleamed. There was a faint shadow beneath her ring finger, a subtle detail that suggested a wedding band, though none was present. He hadn't consciously carved it. It simply… appeared. A cold prickle touched his skin. He leaned in, examining the shadow. It was an illusion, of course, a trick of the studio lights, casting shapes where there were none. He rubbed his eyes, the fatigue finally catching up. He needed a break, needed to step away before he started seeing things that weren't there. The sculpture was finished. Ready. But as he turned to leave, a final glance over his shoulder caught the statue’s eyes. For a split second, a flicker. A depth that wasn't granite, but something alive. He froze, heart hammering. The studio was silent, save for the hum of the ventilation system. He blinked, hard. The eyes were stone again, unmoving. He must be losing it. "It's just a sculpture, Regi," he whispered, trying to convince himself. But the strange connection, the profound unease, lingered like the dust in the air. --- The gallery hummed with a nervous energy, a low thrum of anticipation that vibrated through the polished floor. Regi felt it in his bones, a familiar pre-show jitters, but amplified tonight. He adjusted the lapel of his charcoal suit, his gaze sweeping over the mingling crowd. Faces he knew, critics, collectors, fellow artists. They all waited for 'The Expectant Mother.' "Santai aja, Bang Reg. Semua bakal beres." Dika clapped him hard on the shoulder, his grin wide and reassuring. Dika, always the boisterous one, a force of nature in his own right, stood a head taller than Regi, his build solid from years of carpentry. He wore a crisp white shirt, already threatening to come untucked. "Gue udah siap, Dik. Cuma agak… aneh aja rasanya." Regi gave a half-shrug, trying to dismiss the lingering unease from the studio. *I'm ready, Dik. It just feels… strange.* Gibran, ever the calm, steady presence, stepped closer. He was the middle brother, his expression thoughtful. "Aneh gimana, Bang? Karya lo kan selalu bikin orang takjub." His voice was soft, a contrast to Dika's louder tones. *Strange how, brother? Your work always amazes people.* Fajar, quiet and observant, nodded in agreement, a rare smile gracing his lips. He leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, his dark eyes taking everything in. He didn't speak often, but when he did, it carried weight. Fijay, the youngest, fidgeted beside him, his gaze darting between Regi and the draped sculpture. "Reg, seriusan, itu patung kok bisa mirip banget sama manusia?" Fijay’s voice was a mix of awe and slight apprehension. At seventeen, he still had that wide-eyed wonder, though a rebellious streak was starting to show. *Reg, seriously, how can that statue be so much like a human?* Regi managed a genuine smile for Fijay. His youngest brother, always asking the direct questions. "Itu rahasianya, Jay. Sentuhan ajaib." He winked. *That's the secret, Jay. A magic touch.* "Magic my ass. Itu mah bakat tolol, Bang," Dika interjected, laughing, before Gibran nudged him with an elbow. *Magic my ass. That's just stupid talent, brother.* "Jaga mulut lo, Dik," Gibran chastised, but there was no real heat behind it. *Watch your mouth, Dik.* Regi took in their faces, the familiar banter, the easy camaraderie. This was his rock, his foundation. He’d do anything for them. The thought pushed back the disquiet, momentarily. He felt a surge of pride, not just for his art, but for the family standing with him. "Udah siap, Regi? Lima menit lagi." The gallery owner, a portly man named Pak Arto, approached, his face beaming. "Ini bakal jadi pameran terbesar lo." *Ready, Regi? Five minutes. This is going to be your biggest exhibition.* Regi nodded, taking a deep breath. "Siap, Pak." He glanced at the large, black drape covering his masterpiece. The anticipation in the room was palpable, a live current. He straightened his shoulders, ready to step into the spotlight. His brothers gave him supportive nods, silent assurances. Fijay even managed a thumbs-up. Regi felt a familiar warmth spread through him. Everything was going to be fine. It had to be. --- Pak Arto’s voice boomed through the gallery, amplified by the sound system. He introduced Regi with glowing praise, recounting his past successes, building the tension. Regi stood beside the draped sculpture, the heavy fabric a dark mystery. His heart pounded a rhythm against his ribs, a mixture of excitement and that persistent, nagging unease. He scanned the crowd. Hundreds of eyes fixed on him, on the hidden form beside him. Then it was his turn. He stepped to the microphone, the spotlight hot on his face. "Selamat malam semuanya," he began, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. "Malam ini, saya mempersembahkan karya terbaru saya, 'The Expectant Mother.'" *Good evening, everyone. Tonight, I present my newest work, 'The Expectant Mother.'* He walked back to the sculpture, his hand reaching for the rope. The applause was already starting, a ripple through the room. He gripped the cord, his fingers tightening around the rough braid. This was the moment. The culmination of months of solitary, intense work. With a deep breath, Regi pulled. The heavy black velvet drape slid upwards, revealing the full, breathtaking majesty of 'The Expectant Mother.' A collective gasp swept through the gallery, followed by a stunned silence. Then, a roar. Thunderous applause erupted, crashing over Regi like a wave. Whistles and shouts of admiration filled the air. People surged forward, craning their necks for a better look. Critics nodded, their faces alight with professional approval. Gibran, Dika, Fajar, and Fijay stood beaming, their pride evident even from across the crowded room. Regi felt a rush of triumph, a powerful elation that momentarily drowned out all his earlier anxieties. He had done it. He had created something truly extraordinary. The sculpture, bathed in the soft gallery lights, looked truly alive. Her skin seemed to glow, her form radiating a serene power. Every detail, from the faint freckles on her nose to the delicate curve of her fingernails, was perfect. His eyes, however, were drawn immediately to her face. To her eyes. He saw it again. A flicker. Not a trick of the light this time, not a figment of his imagination. It was a subtle shift, a momentary depth, like a shadow passing over a pupil, then gone. It was barely there, a fraction of a second, but it was enough. Regi’s stomach clenched. His triumph evaporated, replaced by a cold dread. He stared at the statue’s eyes, willing it to happen again, to prove he wasn't hallucinating. But they remained still, unmoving, made of inert stone. The collective awe of the crowd seemed to heighten his disquiet. They saw art. He saw something else. The sculpture was too real. It was beyond realism, almost entering the realm of the uncanny. A prickle of fear traced his scalp. This wasn't merely a testament to his skill; it felt like he had somehow, inadvertently, stumbled into something he didn't understand. The applause swelled, but to Regi, it sounded distant, muffled. He felt utterly alone, standing before his creation, which now seemed to gaze past the admiring crowd, directly into him. A profound disquiet settled deep within his bones. --- The celebratory murmur of the crowd continued, a sea of admiring whispers and exclamations. Regi tried to smile, to acknowledge the praise, but his gaze kept returning to the statue’s eyes, searching for that phantom flicker. He felt a tremor in his hand, the one that had pulled the drape. His triumph had curdled into a cold, unsettling fear. Suddenly, a piercing scream cut through the din. The crowd hushed, turning, a ripple of alarm spreading. "Ada apa itu?!" Dika’s voice, sharp with concern, reached Regi. *What's that?!* Near the front, just a few feet from 'The Expectant Mother,' a young woman crumpled to the polished floor. She was a slender figure, dressed in a vibrant red dress, and now she lay curled on her side, clutching her stomach with both hands. Her face was contorted in pain, a small, choked sound escaping her lips. Panic flared. People rushed forward, a few gasping at the sight. "Panggil ambulans!" someone shouted. "Tolong!" *Call an ambulance! Help!* Regi felt a jolt of ice water through his veins. He pushed through the gathering onlookers, his brothers following close behind. He reached the woman, kneeling awkwardly beside her. Her eyes were wide with terror, tears streaming down her face. She was pale, almost translucent beneath the gallery lights. "Nggak apa-apa, Bu?" he asked, his voice strained. *Are you okay, ma'am?* She shook her head, unable to speak, her fingers digging into her abdomen. A dark, wet stain was spreading slowly on her red dress, just above her navel. Regi’s breath hitched. Blood. "Astaga, darah!" Dika exclaimed, recoiling slightly. Fijay looked ill, his face white. Gibran moved swiftly, trying to create space around the woman. Fajar, ever practical, was already on his phone, likely calling for help. The gallery lights, which had bathed his masterpiece in glory moments before, now seemed to cast a harsh, unforgiving glare on the scene. The elegant party had dissolved into chaos. Regi looked from the bleeding woman to his statue. 'The Expectant Mother' stood serene, oblivious, yet something about the tableau felt horrifyingly connected. The vivid red of the woman's dress, the stark white of her face, the quiet dignity of the stone figure—it was a macabre painting. His gaze fell on the statue’s hands, those perfect, cradling hands. They seemed to tighten their grip on the stone belly. Then, impossibly, he heard it. Not with his ears, not truly, but a resonance deep within him, a vibration against his very soul. A whisper, cold and dry as dust, yet sharp as a blade. It brushed past his ear, a voice that was not his own, promising, "It begins."

Chapter 1: A Breath of Stone