## 6:20 a.m.
At 6:20 a.m., Naya decided to return to the library.
The decision made no sense. After everything that had happened the night before, she should have thrown away the red book, called someone, or gone as far away from Darma Pustaka Library as possible. But the message from the unknown number was still glowing on her phone screen.
Mom wants to talk.
The sentence was far too simple, but it was enough to shatter the defenses Naya had painstakingly built over the past three years.
Since her mother died, Naya had grown used to handling everything on her own. She went to college, worked on her assignments, paid the bills, and returned to a home that always felt too large for one person. She called the habit strength.
But maybe she was only putting off her grief.
A knock came from inside her bag.
Knock.
Knock.
Naya stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.
The red book was knocking against its cover from inside again.
She did not open it. She did not want to hear the sound of its pages turning on their own, either. But a third message arrived before she could put her phone away.
Don't make Mom wait again.
Naya gripped her phone tightly.
“If that's really you, Mom,” she whispered, “why didn't you speak last night?”
The book inside her bag suddenly went silent.
Then a voice she knew all too well came from behind the fabric of the bag.
“Naya.”
Her body froze.
It was her mother's voice. Not the imitation voice she'd heard in the library corridor, not a whisper mixed with the rain. It was exactly as Naya remembered it—soft, slightly hoarse, always trailing downward at the end of a sentence.
“Naya, come home.”
Tears filled Naya's eyes.
She closed the bag with both hands, then quickened her pace.
Darma Pustaka Library was fifteen minutes from her house. The morning had only just begun. The shops weren't fully open yet, traffic was still sparse, and the streets were wet from the rain the night before. The closer Naya got to the library, the heavier her steps became.
The old building looked different in the morning. Its walls were paler. Its windows were covered by gray curtains. The sign above the door hung crooked, even though Naya was sure it had still been straight the night before.
Two police cars were parked in front of the door.
Naya stopped.
Yellow tape stretched across the entrance.
A police officer stood near the stairs. When he saw Naya, he immediately approached.
“Sorry, but this area isn't open to the public yet.”
“I was the student who was inside last night.”
The officer looked her up and down.
“Last night?”
“Yes. I—”
“Name?”
“Naya Prameswari.”
The officer's expression changed. He opened his notebook, flipped through several pages, then looked at Naya again.
“Your name isn't here.”
“What do you mean?”
“According to the guard, the library was empty when the building was closed last night.”
“Is Mr. Wiryo here?”
The officer furrowed his brow.
“Who?”
“The library guard. Mr. Wiryo.”
A man around fifty came out from behind the officer carrying a folder. He wore a white shirt and an identification badge that read Library Director.
“Mr. Sastro has been the guard here for more than twenty years,” he said. “There is no Mr. Wiryo.”
Naya felt the air around her vanish.
“Mr. Sastro?”
“Yes.”
“He was the one guarding the library last night.”
The library director glanced at the officer, then looked back at Naya.
“Mr. Sastro died three years ago.”
Naya didn't immediately understand the sentence.
The sounds of vehicles, birds, and people's footsteps around them seemed to recede.
“Three years?” she whispered.
“He was found dead in the archive room,” the man continued. “The second floor and basement have been closed ever since.”
Naya took a step back. The bag on her shoulder suddenly felt much heavier.
“That's impossible.”
The officer studied her face.
“Are you sure you entered this building last night?”
Naya wanted to answer, but all the words stopped in her throat.
She looked through the glass door. The reading room appeared as usual. The wooden tables were neatly arranged. The lights were on. The bookshelves stood in long rows.
There was no sign of damage.
No open second floor.
No puddles.
No traces of blood.
As if the entire night had never happened.
“Where are my things?” Naya asked.
“We didn't find anything.”
“My laptop was on the table near the window.”
“There was no laptop.”
Naya reached into her bag and pulled out her laptop. It was still there, complete with its coiled charging cable.
The officer stared at it in confusion.
“If this belongs to you, why wasn't it inside?”
Naya didn't answer.
Her phone vibrated.
A new message came in.
Don't talk to them.
The sender's number was different from before. But the profile picture made Naya's blood feel like it had stopped flowing.
The picture showed a woman sitting in a small kitchen, wearing blue house clothes. Her hair was tied back carelessly. She held a cup of tea in her hand.
Naya's mother.
The same picture hung in her living room.
Her phone vibrated again.
They won't believe you because they've never read the first page.
Naya raised her head.
In one of the second-floor windows, the figure of a young girl stood behind the curtain.
Her hair was wet.
Her face couldn't be seen.
One hand rested against the glass. Her index finger moved slowly, writing on the fogged window.
Naya.
Then the figure vanished.
“Ma'am?” the library director called. “Are you all right?”
Naya was still staring at the second floor.
“There's someone up there.”
The officer immediately turned and entered the building. A few seconds later, footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Naya waited outside.
Five minutes passed.
Ten minutes.
The officer returned, his face tense.
“There was no one there.”
“But I saw—”
“The window glass was dusty. There were no writing marks.”
The library director opened the door wider.
“If you really came here last night, you should come with us to give a statement.”
Naya looked inside the library.
On the table near the window, where she had sat the night before, there was now a black book.
The book was open.
It was too far away to read the writing on the page, but Naya knew what it said. The words appeared in her mind just like that.
Naya is standing outside the library.
Naya sees the police.
Naya pretends not to know that they've all become part of the story.
Beneath it, new ink began to move.
Naya will go back inside before 7:00 a.m.
Naya gripped the strap of her bag.
She could leave. She could run home, throw away the red book, and never come back. But her mother's voice sounded again from inside the bag.
“Naya, Mom wants to talk.”
She stepped across the police tape.
The library director called after her, but Naya didn't stop.
The glass door opened on its own before her hand touched the handle.
Inside, the air felt colder.
The wall clock showed 6:59 a.m.
The black book on the table near the window closed with a soft sound.
Knock.
Naya stared at it.
One sentence was now written on the book's cover:
This time, don't trust anyone.