Ninda arrived at Wringin Anom Alley at 4:27 in the afternoon.
She carried a camera, a small flashlight, a power bank, a plastic folder, and an adjustable wrench she had bought from a hardware store near the market. The wrench was too heavy to hide comfortably, but convincing enough to make her feel she wasn't being completely stupid.
Bagas had sent six messages since noon.
Don't go in if the door is locked.
Don't come near Maghrib.
Ninda, I'm serious.
Each message tried to sound calmer than the one before it. Not one of them succeeded.
Ninda turned off her notifications.
Mbak Rara was arranging glasses when Ninda passed by.
"If you're going into an empty house, bring a friend," she said without looking up.
"I brought an adjustable wrench."
"That thing can't talk to you if you pass out."
"I won't pass out."
"Everyone who passes out says that before they pass out."
Ninda showed her the address from Ms. Sulastri.
Mbak Rara didn't read the paper. She only looked at the blue door at the end of the alley.
"You're late."
"There's still forty minutes before Maghrib."
"It's not about the sun."
Ninda put the paper away. "You know this house?"
"Everyone knows that house."
"According to the locals, it's been empty for twenty years."
"An empty house can still have guests."
Mbak Rara picked up a glass and wiped it.
"If I don't come back before the call to prayer, please contact Mr. Hendra."
"I don't have his number."
Ninda recited the number she'd gotten from the duty officer.
Mbak Rara looked at her with an expression difficult to distinguish between irritation and concern.
"You really have no ability to respect warnings, do you?"
"I respect them. I just don't always obey them."
"That's called not respecting them."
Ninda walked toward the row house.
The alley felt narrower that afternoon than it had the previous day. The wall on the left held in the heat, while the right side was already covered in the shadows of the trees. Children played marbles near the mouth of the alley. A woman hung laundry while occasionally glancing in Ninda's direction.
The row house stood six steps from the banyan tree.
Its door was dark blue, with peeling paint along the bottom. The padlock wasn't attached. The door was merely closed, as though someone had left in a hurry and hadn't had time to lock it.
Ninda turned on her phone's camera.
"4:39 p.m. Row house at the end of Wringin Anom Alley. Exterior condition: blue door, old paint, no visible signs of activity from the occupants."
She pushed the door open.
The hinges let out a long groan.
The smell of the old house greeted her at once: wet wood, dust, fabric stored for too long, and a faint jasmine scent that had turned bitter.
The first room was empty. There was a short table without chairs, a wooden shelf, and a wall marked by nail holes in an irregular pattern. The floor wasn't as dusty as it should have been. Someone had swept this house.
Ninda pulled the door halfway shut, leaving a sliver of light.
She checked every room.
The first bedroom contained only a thin mattress without a sheet. The second had a small wardrobe with its door open. In the kitchen, there was a rusted pot, but its inside was clean. Under the sink, she found three packets of coarse salt and a red cloth folded neatly.
She didn't touch the cloth.
The walls of the back room were covered in paper.
Not wallpaper. The sheets had been pasted from the floor to almost the ceiling. Some were yellowed, others new. There were names, dates, arrows, and X marks.
Ninda moved closer.
Ratri Kusuma.
Dimas Ardiansyah.
Sulastri.
Joko Pranoto.
Maya Lestari.
Yusuf Hadi.
Laras Wulandari.
The seven names were scattered among dozens of others.
There were names from 1974. Names from 1989. Names from 2003. Some had only dates. Others had short notes: came home, forgot, didn't recognize the house, must not be spoken.
Ninda turned on the camera light.
In the center of the wall was a map of the old neighborhood. Its lines didn't match the current streets. The banyan tree was drawn as a large circle. Beneath it was the shape of a forest that no longer existed.
She photographed the map from several angles.
Her phone vibrated.
A message from Bagas.
Where are you?
Ninda typed: Row house. Won't be long.
She didn't send the photo.
On the right side of the map, someone had written a sentence in black ink:
What was lost isn't always the body.
Ninda took out her notebook and copied the sentence.
Children's laughter came from outside the house. Then a woman's voice called them home.
Ninda looked at the time.
4:52.
She took a closer photo of the line of names. Beneath Laras's name was an arrow pointing to the word came home, followed by another arrow pointing to an apartment building. Beside Dimas's name was a small drawing resembling an ear.
A sound came from the front bedroom.
Creak.
Ninda froze.
She gripped the adjustable wrench, held her breath, and waited.
There was no second sound.
Maybe wood. Maybe a rat. Maybe an old house adjusting to someone inside it.
Ninda backed toward the door.
Under the short table, she saw a small object: a folded business card. She picked it up with the tip of the adjustable wrench.
There was no name. Only a circle with three lines through the center.
The same symbol appeared in the corner of the map.
Outside, the call to prayer began.
One mosque. Then another mosque answering from far away.
Ninda slipped the card into the folder and walked faster.
When she reached the front room, the blue door moved on its own.
It wasn't opening. It was closing.
Ninda held it with her left hand.
The air in the house turned cold. The bitter jasmine scent disappeared, replaced by the smell of wet earth and rotting leaves.
From the yard, the shadow of the banyan tree crept through the gap in the door.
Ninda shoved the door open and stepped outside.
She glanced at the wall one more time.
Beneath the map was the newest sheet.
The paper was white. Its date was this week.
A single name was written there, but it wasn't finished.
NIN—
The final stroke stopped as though the hand writing it had been abruptly yanked away.
Ninda took one step closer.
Beneath the truncated name was a time: tonight.
The call to prayer was still echoing when the blue door closed behind her.
From the direction of the banyan tree, something scraped against the roots with a soft sound.
Ninda stood in the middle of the alley, holding the adjustable wrench, the evidence folder, and a name that hadn't been finished.
For the first time since receiving the seven names, she didn't wonder who had sent the message.
She already knew the message was meant for her.