My name is Rahmat, I'm 34, I'm from Yogyakarta. This happened 3 years ago. I had a small coffee shop near Gadjah Mada University. Things were going well. Students came in every day, I hired two girls for the register — the second one honestly more because she was my mom's neighbor's kid, the neighbor asked. I was even starting to think about a second location. Mom was happy. For the first time in my life I felt like things were actually working out. And then in one week everything fell apart. First the coffee machine broke. I bought a new one. Next day the new one broke too. Just wouldn't turn on, the technician said he had no idea what was wrong. Then a pipe burst inside the wall, flooded the whole place. While I was drying everything out, one of my employees fainted right at the register. Fell and smashed the display case. You can imagine the costs — doctor, repairs. And the next morning I found a dark spot by the front door. Something oily, foul-smelling, like a mix of incense and something rotten. I'm not a superstitious person, really. But when I saw that spot, the hair on my arms stood up. I just stood there staring at it, and I had this feeling inside that I can't explain. A bad one. Mom called that same day. I hadn't told her anything about the spot, but she said: "Rahmat, go see Ki Lurah Semo." Just like that, no reason. She said she had a bad dream. When she has a bad dream, she won't let it go anyway, so I went. Ki Lurah Semo is a dukun who lives in a village south of Yogyakarta. He's about seventy, maybe older. My grandmother used to go to him when I was little. I remember his house — simple, dirt floor, a huge banyan tree in the yard. He doesn't charge a set fee, you just leave whatever you can. I went. I didn't know what else to do anyway. Ki Lurah Semo was sitting on a mat drinking tea. He looked at me and said: "Do you have a partner? Someone you were going to start a business with?" And I went cold. Because yes… there was one. Adi. We planned to open the coffee shop together, but we had a falling out over money before we even opened. He put in a small amount, I paid him back every last cent, and we went our separate ways. I thought it ended fine. Ki Lurah Semo said it briefly, something like: "He went to someone. Not to me. And he paid to have your business killed. He believes you cheated him." I felt embarrassed sitting in front of a dukun listening to this. And at the same time… I felt he was telling the truth. Because Adi really was hurt. He believed the coffee shop idea was his, and that I stole it and made money off it. That's not true, but that's what he believed. Ki Lurah Semo asked me to bring three things: water from the well near my coffee shop, a handful of dirt from the threshold, and a white jasmine flower. I brought everything the next day. He placed a bowl of water on the floor, dropped in the dirt and the flower. He started reciting something… not in Indonesian, in Old Javanese. The water in the bowl turned cloudy, then almost black. Then he leaned over the bowl and blew, and the water became clear again. Clean. The jasmine flower floated on the surface like nothing had happened. He gave me the water and told me to pour it on the threshold of the coffee shop. And then he said that when a person pays for their anger to enter someone else's home, it doesn't pass without a trace for them. "Don't be angry at him. Just close the door," that's what he said. I poured the water on the threshold that same evening. The spot I couldn't scrub off for three days was gone the next morning. Just gone. The concrete was clean, like nothing had ever been there. A week later the coffee machine worked. It just turned on when I pressed the button that morning. The employee who'd been sick came back to work. The students came back. By the end of the month the revenue was higher than before all the problems started. And six months later I ran into Adi at the market by accident. He looked bad. Thin, dark circles under his eyes. He looked away and left. I felt sorry for him. Ki Lurah Semo had warned that it would come back to him. That's how it works. I didn't take revenge. I even wanted to call him, but Mom said don't. Don't open that door again. Now I have two coffee shops. Things are going well, alhamdulillah. At the threshold of each one I keep a small pot of jasmine. Ki Lurah Semo recommended it.