I met Dani for the first time in a Jakarta freelancer WhatsApp group — he was the first to answer my question about what a fair rate for logo design really was. "Don't go below three million," he wrote. "Unless you want to be paid in 'exposure.'"
We finally met at a cafe in Kemang, three weeks after that. Dani arrived twenty minutes late, blaming his online ojek for going the wrong way — even though the distance was barely a kilometer. He ordered iced coffee with milk. I ordered the same because I hadn't had time to read the menu. That's how our friendship started — rushed, and without any real intention.
Dani worked as a content writer from his apartment in Pancoran. I was a designer, from the seventh floor in Mampang. We never really worked together professionally, but almost every night we'd message each other — sometimes about annoying clients, sometimes about which instant noodle was actually worth eating at midnight.
One evening in November, Dani called.
"Do you use music when you work?" he asked, without any preamble.
"Yeah. Why?"
"I'm bored of every playlist. Lo-fi — boring. Jazz — boring. Now I'm trying to work in silence but I can hear my neighbor doing karaoke."
I laughed. In my room, the AC hummed quietly. Outside the window, Jakarta was still loud even past midnight.
"Try turning everything off," I said. "Just type."
"That's not a solution."
"Just try."
He went quiet for a moment. I could hear his keyboard through the phone — thin, steady, like light rain falling on a tin roof.
And suddenly I remembered home.
Not a clear memory — not a face or a specific image. More like a feeling. Nights back home were never truly silent. There were always crickets outside. The slow spin of a standing fan. Sometimes my father still watching television in the living room past ten o'clock.
Sounds I never noticed when I was still there. That only felt gone after I stopped hearing them.
"Hey," said Dani from the other end. "You still there?"
"Yeah. Just thinking about something."
"Thinking about what?"
I didn't answer right away. Outside the window, a motorcycle passed. The AC was still humming. My laptop glowed, its screen full of unfinished design files.
"About sound," I said finally.
Dani went quiet for a second. "Why are you being so weird at this hour."
I laughed. But the thought didn't leave.
A few weeks after that call, I started building Senada.
Not because I was a skilled programmer — I was a designer, and my code back then still relied on AI for things I probably should have known myself. I'd type a question, hoping the answer would just work. Sometimes it did. Sometimes it didn't, and I'd try again with different words but the same meaning. The AI never got annoyed. I appreciated that.
The hard part was the sound. I generated it using ElevenLabs — night crickets, forest birds, water dripping in a cave. The results surprised me. Too clean, too perfect — like nature sounds that had never actually been near nature. I adjusted them over and over until there was a little noise, a little imperfection, enough to make the ears believe it was real.
The first sound I finished was night crickets. I'm not sure why that came first — maybe because it was the one I missed most from home. Nights there were never truly quiet. There were always crickets.
Dani was my first tester.
"This is still rough," he said, after trying the first version. "The cricket sound is like something from a soap opera."
"I know."
"But..." he paused. "There's something there. I don't know what."
That was enough for me to keep going.
Three months after that November call, Senada was done. Not perfectly done — there were still small bugs when the laptop ran too hot, and there were only four sound packs at the time. But enough to release. Enough for other people to try.
The night before I uploaded the installer, I sat in the same room, on the same seventh floor, facing the same wall. I opened Senada, chose Night Crickets, and started typing — nothing important, just random sentences to fill the screen.
Outside the window, Jakarta was still loud.
But inside that room, for a moment, I was back somewhere whose sounds I had never noticed before.
I sent Dani a message that night. Just one line:
"Dan, try downloading Senada."
He didn't reply until morning. But the next day, when I opened WhatsApp, his message was just two words:
Saya kenal Dani pertama kali di grup WhatsApp freelancer Jakarta — dia yang pertama menjawab pertanyaan saya soal rate desain logo yang wajar. "Jangan mau di bawah tiga juta," tulisnya. "Kecuali kamu mau dibayar pakai 'exposure.'"
Kami akhirnya ketemuan di sebuah kafe di Kemang, tiga minggu setelah itu. Dani datang terlambat dua puluh menit dengan alasan ojek online-nya salah jalan, padahal jaraknya cuma satu kilometer. Dia pesan es kopi susu, saya pesan yang sama karena tidak sempat baca menu. Begitulah awal pertemanan kami — terburu-buru dan tanpa pilihan yang benar-benar disengaja.
Dani bekerja sebagai penulis konten dari apartemennya di Pancoran. Saya desainer, dari lantai tujuh di Mampang. Kami tidak pernah benar-benar bekerja bersama secara profesional, tapi hampir setiap malam kami saling kirim pesan — kadang soal klien yang menyebalkan, kadang soal mie instan mana yang paling layak dimakan jam dua belas malam.
Suatu malam di bulan November, Dani menelepon.
"Kamu pakai musik gak waktu kerja?" tanyanya, tanpa basa-basi.
"Pakai. Kenapa?"
"Aku bosan dengan semua playlist. Lo-fi bosan. Jazz bosan. Sekarang aku coba kerja dalam sunyi tapi malah jadi dengar suara tetangga aku karaoke."
Saya tertawa. Di kamar saya, AC mendengung pelan. Di luar jendela, Jakarta masih ramai meski sudah lewat tengah malam.
"Coba matiin semuanya," kata saya. "Cuma ketik aja."
"Itu namanya bukan solusi."
"Coba dulu."
Dia diam sebentar. Saya dengar suara keyboardnya dari seberang telepon — tipis, konsisten, seperti hujan kecil yang jatuh di atap seng.
Dan tiba-tiba saya ingat kampung.
Bukan ingatan yang jelas — bukan gambar atau wajah tertentu. Lebih seperti perasaan. Malam di rumah dulu tidak pernah benar-benar sunyi. Selalu ada jangkrik di luar. Suara kipas angin berdiri yang berputar lambat. Kadang suara bapak yang masih nonton televisi di ruang tengah meski sudah jam sepuluh.
Suara-suara yang tidak pernah saya perhatikan waktu masih di sana. Yang baru terasa hilang setelah saya tidak lagi mendengarnya.
"Hei," kata Dani dari seberang telepon. "Kamu masih ada?"
"Ada. Lagi mikir sesuatu."
"Mikir apa?"
Saya tidak langsung menjawab. Di luar jendela, sebuah motor melintas. AC masih mendengung. Laptop saya menyala, layarnya penuh dengan file desain yang belum selesai.
"Mikirin suara," kata saya akhirnya.
Dani diam sebentar. "Kamu kenapa jadi aneh begini jam segini."
Saya tertawa. Tapi pikiran itu tidak pergi.
Beberapa minggu setelah telepon itu, saya mulai membuat Senada.
Bukan karena saya programmer handal — saya desainer, dan kode saya waktu itu masih level mengandalkan AI untuk hal-hal yang seharusnya saya tahu sendiri. Saya ketik pertanyaan, berharap jawabannya langsung jalan. Kadang jalan. Kadang tidak, dan saya coba lagi dengan kata-kata yang berbeda tapi maksud yang sama. AI itu tidak pernah kesal. Saya menghargai itu.
Bagian yang susah adalah suaranya. Saya generate pakai ElevenLabs — jangkrik malam, burung hutan, tetesan air di goa. Hasilnya mengejutkan saya. Terlalu bersih, terlalu sempurna, seperti suara alam yang belum pernah ke alam sungguhan. Saya adjust berulang kali sampai ada sedikit noise, sedikit ketidaksempurnaan, yang membuat telinga percaya bahwa itu nyata.
Sound pertama yang selesai adalah jangkrik malam. Saya tidak tahu kenapa itu yang pertama — mungkin karena itu yang paling saya rindukan dari kampung. Malam di sana tidak pernah benar-benar sunyi. Selalu ada jangkrik.
Dani jadi tester pertama saya.
"Ini masih kasar," katanya, setelah mencoba versi pertama. "Suara jangkriknya kayak dari sinetron."
"Iya saya tahu."
"Tapi..." dia berhenti sebentar. "Ada sesuatu. Entah apa."
Itu cukup untuk saya lanjutkan.
Tiga bulan setelah telepon November itu, Senada selesai. Bukan selesai yang sempurna — masih ada bug kecil yang muncul kalau laptop terlalu panas, dan sound pack-nya baru ada empat. Tapi cukup untuk dirilis. Cukup untuk dicoba orang lain.
Malam sebelum saya upload installer-nya, saya duduk di kamar yang sama, di lantai tujuh yang sama, menghadap tembok yang sama. Saya buka Senada, pilih Night Crickets, dan mulai mengetik — tidak ada yang penting, hanya kalimat acak untuk mengisi layar.
Di luar jendela, Jakarta masih ramai.
Tapi di dalam kamar itu, untuk sesaat, saya kembali ke tempat yang suaranya tidak pernah saya perhatikan dulu.
Saya kirim pesan ke Dani malam itu. Hanya satu kalimat:
"Dan, coba download Senada."
Dia tidak membalas sampai pagi. Tapi keesokan harinya, waktu saya buka WhatsApp, pesannya cuma dua kata:
