CHAPTER 4
Morning in Wanastra arrived with the sound of vehicles.
Arga had been awake since before sunrise.
He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the last message that had come in the night before.
Your father isn't the person you've always thought he was.
The message was still there.
The number was unknown.
There was no name.
No explanation.
Arga had tried calling it several times, but the number wasn't active.
He slipped his phone into his pocket.
Today, they were going to Kalendra.
A place he hadn't even known existed for twenty-nine years.
A place that might hold answers about his father.
Or perhaps the reason no one had ever wanted Arga to find him.
Raka was already waiting in front of the inn when Arga came out.
“We heading straight there?”
Arga nodded.
“Straight there.”
Raka handed him a bottle of water.
“Drink up first.”
Arga took it.
“You get any new information?”
“A little.”
Raka took out his phone.
“Last night, I looked up Bima's name again.”
“What'd you find?”
“The old address we had isn't registered anymore.”
Arga stopped walking.
“What do you mean?”
“Nusa Street is still there. But number seventeen has changed.”
“What about the house?”
“No clue.”
Arga sighed.
“Then that's where we'll start.”
Raka nodded.
They got on the motorcycle and left Wanastra.
The farther they rode, the emptier the road became.
The high-rises gradually disappeared.
They were replaced by rice fields, plantations, simple houses, and trees growing wild along the road.
Arga kept gazing at the scenery around him.
For some reason, the closer they got to Kalendra, the heavier he felt.
As if something were waiting for him there.
Something that had been asleep all this time.
And today, it would be awakened.
They arrived at Kalendra Village around eleven that morning.
An old gate stood at the village entrance.
Its paint was beginning to peel.
Some of the letters were almost impossible to read.
Arga got off the motorcycle.
He stood in front of the gate.
KALENDRA VILLAGE.
His heart began to beat faster.
“This is it,” Raka said.
Arga didn't answer.
His eyes swept over the village road.
Strange.
This place felt familiar.
Even though he'd never been here before.
Maybe it was because of the old photograph.
Or maybe some small part of him had known this place through stories that had never been told.
They entered the village.
After asking several residents, they finally found Nusa Street.
The street was narrow.
Old houses stood on either side.
The house numbers were out of order.
But there was no sign of number seventeen.
Arga stopped in front of an old house.
Its number was fifteen.
The house beside it was number nineteen.
There was no number seventeen.
“Did the house disappear?” Raka asked.
Arga looked around.
“I don't know.”
An elderly woman watering plants in front of her house watched them.
Arga approached her.
“Excuse me, Bu.”
The woman turned off the faucet.
“Yes?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“What?”
“Was house number seventeen here before?”
The woman's expression changed.
She looked at Arga.
“Why are you looking for that number?”
“I'm looking for someone.”
“Who?”
Arga took out the photograph.
“Bima Pratama.”
The woman immediately fell silent.
The hand holding the hose slowly lowered.
“Bima?”
“You know him?”
The woman looked more closely at the photograph.
Then she looked at Arga's face.
“Are you his son?”
Arga nodded.
The woman drew a long breath.
“Come inside.”
Arga and Raka exchanged glances.
They followed the woman onto the porch.
Her name was Bu Marni.
She invited them to sit.
“You came too late,” she said.
The same words.
Arga immediately remembered the old man in Wanastra.
“What do you mean?”
Bu Marni stared at the photograph.
“Bima left a long time ago.”
“Where did he go?”
“I don't know.”
“When?”
“Years ago.”
Arga pressed her.
“Did he live in house number seventeen?”
Bu Marni nodded.
“He did.”
“Did?”
“The house is gone.”
“Why?”
Bu Marni fell silent.
“It was burned down.”
Arga froze.
“Burned down?”
“After Bima left.”
Raka watched her as well.
“Who burned it?”
Bu Marni shook her head.
“No one knows.”
Arga felt something crawl across his chest.
“Was Bima alone?”
“No.”
“With whom?”
Bu Marni didn't answer right away.
“With a woman.”
Arga fell silent.
“What woman?”
Bu Marni looked at him.
“Her name was Sari.”
Arga's world seemed to stop.
His mother.
Sari had once been in that house.
With Bima.
Before Arga was born.
“So you knew my mother?”
“Everyone here knew her.”
Arga lowered his head.
Suddenly, so many things felt different.
His mother hadn't merely heard the name Kalendra before.
She had lived there.
Perhaps for a long time.
“Bu Marni,” Arga said softly.
“Yes?”
“Why did my mother never tell me about this place?”
The old woman sighed.
“Because some things are easier to forget than to talk about.”
Arga looked at her.
“I want to know everything.”
Bu Marni shook her head.
“Not everything can be told by someone else.”
“Why not?”
“Because there's someone you need to meet.”
“Who?”
Bu Marni pointed toward the end of the street.
“Pak Harun.”
“Who is he?”
“The last person to speak with your father before Bima left.”
Arga stood immediately.
“Where's his house?”
Pak Harun's house wasn't far from where they were.
It was a simple wooden house with a spacious yard.
An old man sat in a bamboo chair.
His hair was white.
He held a cane in his hand.
Bu Marni introduced Arga.
Pak Harun didn't speak right away.
He only stared at Arga.
For a long time.
Then he said,
“You look very much like him.”
Arga sat down in front of him.
“You knew my father?”
“I did.”
“Bima Pratama?”
Pak Harun nodded.
“Bima was a good boy.”
Arga fell silent.
He had never heard anyone say that about his father.
“Why did he leave?”
Pak Harun gazed out at the yard.
“Because he felt he had no choice.”
“No choice about what?”
“Son…”
Pak Harun sighed.
“Sometimes people leave not because they don't love their families.”
Arga clenched his fists.
“Then why?”
Pak Harun looked at him.
“Because he believed leaving would keep his family safe.”
Arga froze.
“Safe from whom?”
Pak Harun didn't answer.
Raka leaned forward.
“Sir, we just want to know the truth.”
Pak Harun shook his head.
“You're not ready.”
Arga stared at him.
“I've been waiting twenty-nine years.”
Pak Harun fell silent.
“Nothing could make me more ready than that.”
The old man finally nodded.
Then he went inside the house.
A few minutes later, he returned carrying a small box.
A wooden box.
Arga recognized it immediately.
It was almost identical to the box he'd once seen at home.
Pak Harun placed it on the table.
“This belonged to Bima.”
Arga stared at it.
“Why do you have it?”
“He left it with me before he went.”
“Why are you only giving it to me now?”
Pak Harun looked into Arga's eyes.
“Because he told me…”
He stopped.
“…that if his son ever came looking, I should give it to him.”
Arga's heart pounded.
“He knew I would come?”
“He hoped you would.”
Pak Harun opened the box.
Inside were several letters.
One photograph.
And an old watch.
Arga picked up the photograph.
He almost dropped it.
It showed Bima and Sari.
But they weren't alone.
A baby was between them.
On the back of the photograph was a message:
“For Arga, if he ever asks why I left.”
Arga's hands trembled.
He turned the photograph over.
There was another message.
Longer this time.
In Bima's handwriting.
Arga read slowly.
“My son, if you're reading this, it means I failed to explain everything to you myself.”
Arga's breath caught.
Raka fell silent.
Arga continued.
“I never left you because I didn't love you.”
Tears began to well in his eyes.
But before he could finish reading, a voice came from behind him.
“Don't read it.”
Arga turned around.
Pak Harun was standing there.
His face had grown tense.
“Why?”
Pak Harun took the letter.
“Because there's a part of it that isn't meant for you.”
Arga stood at once.
“Not meant for me?”
“It's your father's letter.”
“Then why can't I read it?”
Pak Harun didn't answer.
Arga glared at him.
“What really happened?”
Pak Harun closed his eyes.
Then he said quietly,
“Bima didn't leave alone.”
Arga froze.
“Someone helped him.”
“Who?”
Pak Harun opened his eyes.
“A woman.”
Arga felt his whole body tense.
“Who?”
Pak Harun looked at him.
“Sari.”
The name struck him again.
His mother.
Arga took a step backward.
“No…”
Pak Harun nodded slowly.
“And the reason they separated…”
He stopped.
“…had something to do with your birth.”
Arga was unable to say anything.
The old photograph was still in his hand.
The photograph he had always thought contained the story of a family.
Now he was beginning to realize that perhaps the photograph wasn't a memory.
It was evidence.
Evidence of a secret that had been hidden for twenty-nine years.
Arga's phone suddenly vibrated.
A message came in from an unknown number.
I already warned you.
A second message appeared.
Go home before you find out who you really are.
Arga stared at the screen.
For the first time since beginning his search, he didn't feel only sad.
He felt afraid.
Because the biggest question of his life had suddenly changed.
It was no longer:
“Where is my father?”
Instead:
“Who am I, really?”
Golden Words
“The past never truly disappears. It only waits for someone brave enough to open its door.”