CHAPTER 7
The footsteps drew closer.
Arga stood frozen behind an old shelf.
Beside him, Raka held his breath.
They didn't dare move.
The man who had just entered the warehouse stopped right in front of the metal box marked W-09.
“You never should have found this, Arga.”
That voice.
Arga recognized it.
The old man they'd met at the Wanastra shop.
The first person to see Bima's photograph.
The one who said Arga was too late.
But how did he know Arga was here?
And how did he know about box W-09?
Raka slowly signaled to Arga.
Don't move.
The old man took something from his pocket.
A phone.
He called someone.
“He found the recording.”
Arga felt his heart pounding harder and harder.
The man fell silent as he listened.
Then he said,
“No. I haven't found it yet.”
Arga looked at Raka.
Haven't found what?
The man hung up.
Then he walked toward the shelf where they were hiding.
One step.
Two steps.
Three steps.
Arga grabbed Raka's hand.
They had to get out.
Now.
Raka pointed toward the back door.
Arga nodded.
They moved slowly.
But before they reached the door, Raka accidentally kicked an old can.
Clang!
The man immediately turned around.
“Who's there?”
Arga ran.
“Arga!”
The man's voice rang out behind them.
They burst through the warehouse's back door and ran toward the bushes.
Raka pulled Arga along.
“Come on!”
They kept running until the footsteps behind them faded away.
Only after they were far enough away did they stop.
Arga bent over, catching his breath.
“He knows.”
Raka nodded.
“Obviously.”
“Who is he?”
“I don't know.”
Arga looked toward the warehouse.
“He knows my father.”
“And he knows your mother.”
Arga fell silent.
Those words made everything even more complicated.
They returned to the inn toward late afternoon.
Arga locked the door immediately.
He placed box W-09 on the table.
“We need to find out who that man is.”
Raka nodded.
“His name might be on the list of people who used to live in Kalendra.”
“His name?”
“I heard Bu Marni call him.”
Arga turned.
“What?”
“When we were at the shop.”
Raka tried to remember.
“I think… Mr. Damar.”
Arga opened his laptop.
He searched the name.
There weren't many results.
But one old document made him stop.
Damar Wiratama.
Arga read the name over and over.
“Wiratama.”
Raka leaned closer.
“His last name is the same as Adrian's.”
They looked at each other.
“Brothers?”
“Could be.”
Arga opened the document again.
It contained information about an old company.
Wiratama Logistics.
The company had operated in Wanastra and Adikara in the late 1990s.
There were two names on the list of owners:
Adrian Wiratama.
Damar Wiratama.
Arga leaned back.
“So they're brothers.”
“Maybe.”
“And one of them knew Dad.”
Raka pointed at the screen.
“Not just knew him.”
Under Adrian's name was a note:
Hospital administrative consultant, 1996–1998.
Arga immediately remembered the documents they'd found.
The hospital.
Sari.
The birth date.
Adrian.
Everything was starting to connect.
“Adrian worked at the hospital where Mom gave birth.”
Raka nodded.
“That means he knew about me from the moment I was born.”
Arga stared at the screen.
“But why?”
There was no answer.
The night grew later.
Raka fell asleep in his chair.
Arga was still looking through old documents.
He found a digital newspaper article.
Publication date:
October 15, 1997.
The headline left Arga speechless.
“HOUSE FIRE ON NUSA STREET, ONE PERSON MISSING”
Arga read the article.
House number 17 had burned down on the night of October 14.
There were no fatalities.
But a man named Bima Pratama had been reported missing.
Arga enlarged the screen.
One sentence made his blood run cold.
A baby previously known to have been inside the house was also not found at the scene.
Arga held his breath.
A baby.
Himself.
That meant he had been in house number 17 before the fire started.
But all this time, he'd assumed he had been with his mother.
Arga kept reading.
“According to local residents, a woman named Sari Pratama left the scene several hours before the fire.”
Arga froze.
Several hours before the fire.
Then who had taken the baby?
He scrolled down the page.
One name stood out.
Adrian Wiratama had been seen near the scene before the incident.
Arga closed the laptop.
He stood up.
“Raka.”
Raka woke up.
“What?”
“Adrian was there.”
“Where?”
“At house number 17.”
Raka sat up immediately.
“You sure?”
Arga showed him the article.
Raka read it.
“If this is true…”
“Then Adrian knows what happened that night.”
“And he might know where your dad went.”
Arga grabbed his jacket.
“We're going to find him.”
“Now?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s eleven at night.”
Arga looked at him.
“If someone has spent twenty-nine years trying to hide the truth, do you think he's going to wait until morning?”
Raka sighed.
“Fine.”
They headed to Adrian's old address.
But the house was already empty.
The building stood on the outskirts of Wanastra.
The fence was rusted.
Weeds covered the yard.
There were no lights.
No sign of life.
Arga stood in front of the fence.
“This is Adrian's house?”
Raka checked the address.
“Yeah.”
They went inside.
The front door wasn't locked.
There was old furniture inside.
A table.
Chairs.
A bookcase.
And several cardboard boxes.
Arga opened one of the boxes.
It contained documents.
Old papers.
Photographs.
Letters.
He picked up one photograph.
Arga recognized it immediately.
Bima.
Adrian stood beside him.
They appeared to be talking.
Written on the back of the photograph were the words:
“Before everything changed.”
Arga slipped the photograph into his pocket.
Then he found a notebook.
The first page was blank.
The second page contained a list of dates.
October 12.
October 13.
October 14.
October 15.
Arga turned to the next page.
There was one sentence.
The baby must be moved before they come.
Arga stopped.
Below the sentence were the initials:
A.W.
Adrian Wiratama.
Arga's hands began to tremble.
“Raka.”
Raka came closer.
“What now?”
Arga handed him the notebook.
Raka read it.
“So Adrian really did take you away.”
Arga slowly shook his head.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It says the baby had to be moved before they came.”
Raka stared at him.
“So Adrian was saving you.”
Arga fell silent.
For the first time, his image of Adrian changed.
Maybe he wasn't someone to be afraid of.
Maybe he was the one who had helped Bima and Sari.
But if that was true…
Who were “they”?
Suddenly, a car stopped in front of the house.
Its headlights illuminated the windows.
Raka turned off the lights.
“Don't move.”
The car door opened.
Then they heard footsteps.
Someone entered the house.
Arga and Raka hid behind a wall.
The footsteps drew closer.
Then a man's voice rang out.
“Arga?”
Arga froze.
The voice was different.
Younger.
Calmer.
The man spoke again.
“I know you're in here.”
Arga stepped out of hiding.
A man around fifty stood in the living room.
His hair was starting to gray.
His face looked tired.
He stared at Arga for a long moment.
Then he said,
“You look a lot like Bima.”
Arga gripped the notebook.
“Who are you?”
The man didn't answer.
“Are you Adrian?”
The man took a breath.
“Yes.”
Arga fell silent.
Finally.
After days of chasing that name, the man himself was standing right in front of him.
“How did you know I was coming?”
Adrian looked at the notebook in Arga's hand.
“Because I knew that one day you'd find everything.”
“Why did you help my father?”
Adrian was silent.
“Why did you take me away from Kalendra?”
Adrian lowered his head.
“I didn't take you away.”
Arga frowned.
“Then who did?”
Adrian looked at him.
For several seconds, he seemed to struggle to find the words.
Then he finally said,
“I wasn't the one who took you away, Arga.”
“Who was?”
Adrian closed his eyes.
“Someone who's lived closer to you than anyone else all this time.”
Arga felt his body go cold.
“Who?”
Adrian opened his eyes.
And before he could answer, sirens sounded in the distance.
Adrian immediately panicked.
“You have to go.”
“Not until you answer!”
“Now!”
“Who took me?”
Adrian looked at Arga with deep regret.
Then he said softly,
“Your mother.”
Arga didn't move.
The world seemed to stop.
Sari.
His own mother.
Adrian continued,
“Bima never left you.”
Arga stared at him.
“Then what happened?”
Adrian took an envelope from inside his jacket.
He handed it to Arga.
“Read this.”
Arga accepted it.
The front said only:
For Arga, from Bima.
Adrian glanced at the door.
“Go.”
“Why?”
“Because you're not the only one searching for the truth anymore.”
He looked at Arga.
“The person who's been trying to hide it all this time is searching for you too.”
Arga clutched the envelope tightly.
“What really happened that night?”
Adrian looked at him one last time.
“Bima chose to leave so you could live.”
“And my mother?”
Adrian fell silent.
“She chose something far more difficult.”
“What?”
Adrian opened the door.
“She chose to make you hate her.”
Arga froze.
Adrian looked at him.
“Because sometimes a mother is willing to be seen as the villain as long as her child stays alive.”
The door closed.
Arga stood in front of the empty house.
The envelope was still in his hand.
And for the first time, he was afraid to open the letter from his father.
Because it might contain the answers he'd been searching for over the past twenty-nine years.
Or maybe…
the answer that would destroy the entire life he had known.
MORAL
“Sometimes the person we blame the most is the one carrying a wound they were never able to tell us about.”