The folder’s first page held newspaper clippings yellowed with age, their large headline nearly faded away: “Workplace Accident at Han Corp Factory Claims One Life.”
The date in the corner of the article made Nara count backward in her head: twenty-two years ago.
Raka had been only eight years old then.
Nara read the article carefully, her heart beating faster with every line.
The accident had occurred at one of the Han family’s manufacturing facilities, killing a worker named Hendra Wijaya.
The article mentioned suspected negligence in safety procedures, but the official investigation later concluded that the incident was purely accidental, with no intentional wrongdoing.
She turned to the next page.
Several internal company documents were tucked inside, appearing to be photocopies of an investigation report, a witness list, and a written statement signed by several employees.
Nara scanned the list, her eyes beginning to sting.
Among the names, one made her stop breathing for a moment.
Ratna Wulandari.
Her mother’s full name.
Nara reread the name again and again, making sure her eyes weren’t deceiving her.
But the writing remained the same, clearly printed among the list of witnesses who had signed the official statement concerning the accident twenty-two years ago—long before Nara had even been born.
Her hands trembled as she turned the next page.
A faded old photograph was tucked inside. It showed a group of factory workers standing in front of the company gates.
In a small note written in blue ink on the back of the photograph, their names were listed one by one in neat handwriting.
One of the names was Wijaya, H.—most likely Hendra Wijaya, the accident victim.
And beside it was the name of a young boy who had been photographed with them, perhaps the son of one of the workers who had come to visit his father at work that day.
Kang, J.
Nara stared at the two letters for a long time, trying to understand what they meant.
Was this a coincidence? Or was it truly connected to Kang Ji-han, who had appeared in her future photograph—the man whose phone calls, marked by the same initials, had recently been showing up on Raka’s phone?
She turned to the folder’s final page.
A sheet of paper was tucked inside, bearing handwriting more recent than the other documents—the unmistakable handwriting of Raka, whom Nara had known so well after all their years together.
“Protect her. No matter what happens, don’t let this past touch her.”
There was no date. No further explanation of who “her” referred to, or what kind of “past” had to be kept away from her.
The sound of footsteps approaching from the doorway made Nara flinch.
She hurriedly tried to put the documents back in their original positions, but it was too late. Raka was already standing in the doorway, wearing a T-shirt and with his hair still wet from his shower, staring at the brown folder in his wife’s hands with an expression that had changed drastically.
“Nara.” His voice sounded tense, unlike the warm tone he usually used. “That isn’t something you need to see.”
“Why?” Nara stood, still clutching the folder tightly. “Raka, this is my mother’s name. Why is my mother’s name in documents about the factory accident twenty-two years ago?”
Raka stepped closer, his face now filled with anxiety he could barely hide. “I can explain, but not right now. This is complicated, Nara. There are a lot of things that—”
“Then explain it now,” Nara cut him off, her voice beginning to tremble between anger and fear. “I’ve kept my suspicions to myself in silence for long enough. I’ve watched you receive secret phone calls over and over. I found the initials K.J. on your phone. And now I’ve found this—documents mentioning my mother’s name, and your own handwriting telling someone to protect me from a past I don’t even know anything about.”
Raka fell silent for a moment, his hands clenched at his sides.
A clear inner struggle showed in his eyes: the desire to explain everything warring with fear of something far greater than Nara could imagine.
“Kang Ji-han,” Raka finally said quietly, “isn’t a stranger to me, Nara. And I knew his name long before you ever heard it.”
Nara felt the floor beneath her feet shift.
“How is that possible?” she whispered. “We’ve never even met.”
Raka gazed deeply into his wife’s eyes, and for the first time since they had married, Nara saw something there she had never seen before.
Real fear.
“Because,” Raka said quietly, “he’s part of something that should have ended twenty-two years ago. But apparently, it hasn’t.”
Nara sat back down in Raka’s office chair, her legs suddenly weak. She looked at the brown folder once more, then at her husband, who now stood rigidly in the middle of the room as if he didn’t know where to begin.
“Does Mom know about this?” Nara asked softly, her voice barely more than a whisper.
Raka slowly shook his head. “I don’t know how much your mother knows. What I do know is that my father once asked her never to speak about the incident to anyone again. In return, my family made sure your mother could keep working safely, even after the incident.”
“Like buying her silence,” Nara said, her tone turning sharp. “You silenced my mother.”
“I wasn’t directly involved, Nara. All of this happened before I was old enough to understand anything.” Raka moved closer, knelt in front of the chair where Nara sat, and took both her hands. “But I promise I’ll explain everything. Just not now—not because I want to hide it from you forever, but because I’m still trying to determine how great the danger might be if all of this comes to light too soon.”
Nara searched her husband’s eyes, trying to find a lie there.
But all she found was genuine fear—the fear of a man who seemed to be truly trying to protect something, even though his methods felt wrong to Nara.