Aruna's footsteps echoed softly through the fifth-floor corridor of the office building, which was beginning to empty out. Fluorescent light cast the shadow of her body across the granite floor. Inside her canvas bag, her cell phone kept vibrating incessantly, carrying dozens of urgent messages from Valerie that she had deliberately ignored since the afternoon.
She pushed open the door to the small office at the back corner of the company library—the only place where no one ever called her by name.
Aruna sat in the tall-legged wooden chair, running her fingers over the desk covered with a pile of yellow memo sheets. She drew a long breath, savoring the calming scent of old paper and printing ink. Here, she was neither a highly paid ghostwriter nor an invisible staff member; here, she was the sole owner of every line she brought into being.
The door opened slowly, letting in a stream of cold air from the air conditioner outside. Aruna looked up, preparing to apologize because she thought a janitor had come to lock the room. But the figure standing in the doorway made her hand freeze above the desk.
Rangga Dewantara.
The man had taken off his black jacket, leaving only a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. In his left hand, he held a dark-brown book—the library's limited-edition publication, written by an anonymous author more than a decade ago. "So this room isn't locked after all," Rangga said flatly. His eyes swept across the cramped room before finally settling on Aruna. "I'm looking for a copy of the literary journal published five years ago."
Aruna stood quickly, nearly bumping into the stack of files in the corner of the desk. She lowered her gaze, keeping a safe distance of two steps. "On the left, the third shelf from the top, sir. The special archives section."
Rangga did not move right away. Instead, his gaze fixed on the sheets of paper atop Aruna's desk. The yellow memo sheets were filled with neat, connected handwriting, containing the initial scribbles for the plot of the second novel Valerie had requested that morning. Aruna hurriedly covered the sheets with an empty manila folder. Her heart pounded, striking hard against her chest.
"Very distinctive handwriting," Rangga said quietly. He stepped closer, stopping directly across from Aruna's desk. "The style of the notes feels familiar."
The air in the cramped room suddenly seemed even thinner. Aruna clenched the edge of her cream-colored shirt until it wrinkled. "I was only organizing some administrative notes, Mr. Rangga."
"Is that so?" Rangga pulled out the wooden chair in front of him, then placed the brown-covered book on the desk. "The language in those little notes suggests the same depth as Valerie's manuscript. Are all the employees at this media company trained to write with the same emotional coloring?"
The question came without an accusatory tone, yet it felt like a blade slicing through Aruna's chest. The man before her was so close to the truth, but the distance between their statuses and the false wall of the manuscript kept Rangga blind.
"Maybe it's just a coincidence, sir," Aruna replied, trying to keep her voice even and unburdened. "Anyone who reads often will absorb the language of the books they enjoy."
Rangga studied Aruna's face for several seconds. His dark eyes tried to read doubt or lies in that pale expression. But Aruna concealed the entire storm in her chest behind a practiced, empty stare.
Aruna's cell phone vibrated loudly inside her bag again. This time, its screen lit up brightly enough to reveal the caller's name clearly against the fabric of the bag: Valerie.
Rangga glanced toward Aruna's canvas bag, then looked back into the woman's eyes. "Your boss is calling," Rangga said coldly. He stood and straightened his shirt cuffs. "Thank you for pointing me to the shelves."
Rangga turned and walked out of the small room. Before crossing the doorway, he paused for a moment. Without looking back, he added in a low voice, "It would be a shame if someone with such a sharp mind ended up doing nothing but organizing folders of bills in a dark corner of a room."
The wooden door closed firmly, leaving Aruna standing frozen in the middle of the silence. Aruna touched her constricted chest. The man had just praised her soul for the second time—but once again, that praise had fallen upon the shadow of the wrong person.