Arga woke to the scent of rain.
Even though his bedroom window was tightly shut, the fan was only turning lazily, and the air inside still held the smell of damp clothes piled in the corner. He opened his eyes with difficulty. The dingy ceiling greeted him as usual—a long crack stretched from above the light fixture to the wall, resembling a vein on an old man's hand.
Then Arga realized he wasn't in his bedroom.
Before him stretched a dining room too large to be called a dining room. A crystal chandelier glittered above the long table. Clear glasses stood in perfect rows. Outside the windows, the city glowed far below, small and tame, as though the entire world could be bought from a floor that high.
Arga looked down.
He was wearing a perfectly fitted black suit. A heavy watch circled his wrist. In front of him lay a white envelope and a silver car key.
“Everything is ready, Mr. Arga.”
The voice came from behind him.
Arga turned. An old man stood there with his head bowed. His face was indistinct, like an image that hadn't finished printing.
“Who are you?”
“The one who will lead you to the life you were meant to have.”
Arga let out a short laugh. In real life, he didn't even have enough money to fix his cracked phone. In this dream, someone was calling him sir.
He opened the envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
A girl stood in front of an iron fence, wearing a simple white dress. Her black hair fell past her shoulders. She was beautiful, but her eyes made Arga stop breathing. The girl stared at the camera like someone who had been waiting far too long to be rescued.
“Who is she?”
“The one you have to bring.”
“Where?”
The old man raised his face. For the first time, Arga saw his eyes—dark, empty, and wet like holes that had just been dug.
“To a place her family can't reach.”
Arga looked at the photograph again. An address was written on the back.
Then another voice whispered from beneath the table.
“Bring her, and everything you want will be yours.”
Arga jerked awake.
His body rolled off the thin mattress and hit the floor. Pain shot from his lower back to his shoulder. For several seconds, he simply lay there, staring at dust motes drifting through the morning light.
The dream again.
He rubbed his face. For the past three weeks, the dream had returned over and over. The luxurious room. The faceless old man. The same girl. Always the same words, too.
But that morning, something was different.
A photograph lay on the small table beside his mattress.
Arga froze.
He stood slowly, as though a sudden movement might make the object disappear. The photograph was exactly the same as the one in the dream. The girl. The iron fence. The gaze that felt as if it knew him.
His hand trembled as he turned the photograph over.
An address was written there.
17 Adikara Street.
Arga had heard of that street. Everyone in the city knew the place. Behind its towering gates and old trees, the Wiratama family lived in a house that was probably worth more than the entire run-down apartment building where Arga rented a room.
Beneath the address was a name.
Elara Wiratama.
Arga swallowed.
His phone lay on the floor. Its screen was cracked, but it was still on. Exactly nine thirteen. There was one message from an unknown number.
Don't come alone if you're afraid of losing yourself.
A second message appeared before Arga could touch the screen.
But if you still come, bring Elara.
Outside, the sound of vehicles began to fill the street. The world moved as usual. Vendors opened their stalls, children left for school, and people chased after lives whose destinations they didn't even know.
Arga stared at the photograph.
For the first time in years, he had a purpose.
And that purpose took the form of a girl he had never met—but who had appeared in his dreams again and again.
He slipped the photograph into his jacket pocket.
Then, with the last of his money, Arga left his room and headed for the Wiratama family's house.
Without knowing that behind those gates, Elara was waiting for him.