There is a pond deep within The Rimba, hidden beneath a canopy of towering trees, where the water lies still as glass. No ripples, no sound—only the moon’s pale face staring back from its silver surface.
This is where the water sprites gather every full moon.
Atop the floating lily pads, where the fireflies glow like scattered stars, they hold their grand masquerade. They do not wear masks of silk or gold—no, that would be far too simple. Instead, they steal faces from reflections.
A hiker bending over the pond? A curious man peering into the depths? A child glimpsing their own face in the water? These are the faces the sprites borrow for the night, slipping them on like cloaks, dancing in new skin beneath the moonlight.
But there is one rule—a rule as old as the pond itself.
By dawn, all must return their stolen faces to the water.
Among the sprites that night was Jingga.
Jingga was not like the others. Where they were content to borrow, she longed to keep.
She had always been dissatisfied with her own face—the way her eyes slanted too sharply, the way her undefined features dulled like pebbles worn smooth by the water. The others were delightful, shimmering and radiant, but Jingga… Jingga was forgettable.
And so, when she found the perfect face, she knew she could not let it go.
It belonged to a young woman who had once leaned over the pond, admiring herself. A lovely face, delicate and elegant, with lips made for secrets and eyes that reflected sweet dreams.
Jingga placed it over her own like a second skin. And oh, how perfect it felt.
For the first time, she felt important. Distinct. Beautiful.
For the first time, when the other sprites turned to her, they looked twice.
And so, when dawn approached and the others began to peel away their borrowed faces, dropping them back into the pond like fallen petals, Jingga hesitated.
Then she made her choice.
She kept the face.
At first, no one noticed.
The masquerade ended, the sprites melted back into the depths, and the pond returned to its usual stillness.
For a time, Jingga reveled in her stolen beauty. She admired herself in the water’s reflection, tracing the shape of her new lips, tilting her new chin. She walked taller, spoke softer.
But soon, strange things began to happen.
First, it was the whispers of the reeds.
“Jingga, you are changing,” they murmured as she passed.
Then it was the fireflies, flickering away from her, their glow dimming as she reached for them.
Then it was the other sprites—the ones who had always laughed beside her, danced with her.
“Something is different about you,” one told her.
“You feel… fainter,” another said hesitantly.
“Jingga… is that really you?”
She laughed it off. But when she turned to the pond, she noticed something terrifying.
Her reflection was no longer clear.
In the water, her true form flickered and wavered—blurred beyond recognition.
She blinked. It stayed wrong.
Jingga told herself it was nothing. An illusion. A trick of the water.
But with each passing day, her reflection grew fainter.
And it wasn’t just her reflection—it was her memory, too.
She struggled to recall what her real face had looked like.
She struggled to remember the sound of her own voice.
She struggled to remember who she had been before that night.
Had she always been this way? Had she always felt like a stranger in her own skin?
Then, one night, as she looked into the pond…
She saw nothing at all.
No face. No form. Just empty ripples where her reflection should be.
Panic seized her. She rushed to the pond’s edge, hands trembling, trying to force the image back. She splashed the water, pleaded with it.
The other sprites watched from a distance.
“You must return the face, Jingga,” one of them said softly. “Before you fade completely.”
But she couldn’t.
She had kept it for too long.
Her own face—her real self—was gone.
At the next full moon, when the sprites gathered once more above the lily pads, Jingga tried to join them.
She reached out to them, but her hands were like mist, slipping through their fingers.
She called out, but her voice was a breath of wind, unheard and unacknowledged.
They could no longer see her.
She had no face to wear, no name to call her own.
And so, as the sprites danced in the moonlight, laughing and shimmering, Jingga faded, vanishing like a ripple in the water, leaving behind only a silence that no one remembered to question.
The water sprites still gather every full moon. They still steal faces, borrowing beauty that does not belong to them.
But sometimes, when the pond is still and the air is quiet, if you lean too far over the water’s edge, you might see something strange.
A flicker of movement. A shadow with no face.
Watching.
Waiting.
Because when you forget yourself completely, who else is left to remember you?
Corporate Trainer, Consultant, Entrepreneur & Author | Therine Goh 
Leave a comment