Mada Apriandi Zuhir smiled for the first time in weeks. "Because I drew it while it was drowning."

When the unseasonal monsoon came, the elders said it was punishment. The younger ones said it was climate. Mada said nothing. He just watched the water rise.

When the rain finally stopped, the village was gone. But the people were not. They built a new village on the ridge, and in the center of the new square, they hung Mada's final map of the old village—preserved in resin, showing the streets, the mosque, the mango grove, and every home that had once stood.