11:47 p.m.
Arga tried calling Raka.
The first call went unanswered.
The second did too.
On the third call, the line finally connected.
“Yeah?”
Raka’s voice sounded heavy.
Like he’d just woken up.
Arga asked immediately, “Raka, we went to Bandung on the night of July 17, 2015, right?”
Silence.
“Why?”
“I found a video.”
Raka didn’t answer.
“Raka?”
“I know.”
“You know what?”
“Which video?”
“The one from that night.”
Silence again.
Arga rose from his chair.
“I saw us in the car. It was raining. You told me not to get out.”
There was no answer.
“Why?”
Raka drew a breath.
“Arga, it’s been eleven years.”
“I know.”
“Don’t open it up again.”
“I need to know.”
“You don’t need to know everything.”
Arga gave a small laugh, but there was no humor in it.
“That’s the problem. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to know.”
Raka fell silent.
Arga continued, “Why don’t I remember that night?”
The voice on the other end grew even quieter.
“Because you weren’t in good shape back then.”
“What do you mean?”
“Forget it.”
“Raka.”
“I can’t talk about this over the phone.”
“Then let’s meet.”
Silence.
Then Raka said, “Tomorrow.”
Arga waited.
“Where?”
“The old place.”
“Which old place?”
Raka didn’t answer.
“Raka?”
“Ten o’clock.”
“Where?”
“Bandung.”
Arga went quiet.
“Bandung?”
“Yeah.”
“Why does it have to be Bandung?”
Raka took a long breath.
“Because if I tell you everything over the phone, you’ll think I’m lying.”
“And if we meet?”
“You can see for yourself.”
The call ended.
Arga was still holding his phone.
He looked at the screen.
Call ended.
Bandung.
The city had appeared again.
July 17, 2015.
Bandung.
Nara.
And now Raka was asking him to come there.
Arga walked to the window.
The rain had stopped.
City lights reflected off the wet streets.
He should have felt afraid.
But another feeling was stronger.
The need to know.
12:21 a.m.
Arga opened the closet.
He took out a small bag and packed a few clothes.
Tomorrow was Sunday.
He had no plans.
At least, nothing important.
Maya had invited him to dinner to celebrate his birthday, but Arga hadn’t given her a definite answer.
He took his wallet.
Then he remembered something.
Key number 17.
Arga went back to the table.
The key was still there.
He picked it up and studied its shape beneath the lamplight.
Suddenly, something about it felt familiar.
Not the key itself.
The way he was holding it.
The position of his thumb.
His index finger.
As if it were a motion he had performed over and over.
Arga closed his eyes.
An image appeared.
Nara was sitting in a chair.
Her hand held the key.
She was speaking.
“...if you change your mind, use this.”
Arga opened his eyes.
The image was gone.
He stood motionless.
Then he tried to remember more.
He couldn’t.
But now he knew one thing.
The key wasn’t something that had ended up in his drawer by coincidence.
He had a history with it.
And Nara knew about it.
12:43 a.m.
Arga’s phone rang.
A message from Maya.
“Still awake?”
Arga replied:
“Yeah.”
“So, dinner tomorrow?”
Arga stared at the message.
He almost said no.
Then he changed his mind.
“Sure.”
The reply came:
“What time?”
“Afternoon.”
“Okay. Want me to pick you up?”
Arga paused.
He didn’t want Maya getting involved.
The message from the unknown number still echoed in his mind.
Don’t bring anyone.
Arga typed:
“I’ll come to you.”
Maya replied:
“Weird.”
“Why?”
“You’re usually the one who hates going out.”
Arga smiled.
“Feel like taking a walk.”
Maya didn’t reply for several seconds.
Then:
“Okay, then.”
Arga set his phone down.
He felt a little guilty.
But he didn’t know what to say.
There was no way he could tell her that someone who might know Nara was sending him messages.
There was also no way he could explain that something might have happened eleven years ago—something he had deliberately forgotten.
Not yet.
Not to Maya.
Not to anyone.
1:12 a.m.
Arga was already in bed.
His small bag was ready by the door.
The old train ticket was still in his wallet.
Key number 17 sat on the nightstand.
He stared at it before turning off the light.
For the first time in eleven years, he would return to Bandung not as someone reminiscing about the past.
He would return as someone searching for a missing piece of the past.
And before he fell asleep, a question surfaced in his mind.
If Nara really never came back...
then who had been keeping all those things this whole time?
Sunday morning came sooner than Arga expected.
He woke at six.
There were no new messages from the unknown number.
There was no word from Raka.
Nothing strange had happened.
The morning looked normal.
Arga showered, made coffee, then sat on the balcony, looking out at the sky, still pale with dawn.
He opened his phone.
There was a message from Maya.
“Awake?”
Arga replied:
“Yeah.”
“So, lunch?”
“Yeah.”
He didn’t tell her that he was going to Bandung after lunch.
He didn’t say that Raka was already waiting for him.
And of course, he didn’t say anything about the key.
At eight, Arga began to feel a little calmer.
Maybe all of this would be over today.
He would meet Raka.
Raka would explain what had happened.
They would talk about Nara.
Then Arga would return to Jakarta with the answers he had never even thought to look for.
Simple.
Reasonable.
That was what he thought.
Until 9:17, when a message came in from the unknown number.
Don’t go to Bandung with Raka.
Arga froze.
He had never told anyone that he was going to Bandung.
Not even Maya.
He typed:
“How do you know?”
There was no answer.
Arga tried again.
“Who are you?”
A few seconds later:
I know because I’m the one who told Raka to invite you.
Arga stared at the screen.
His heart began beating faster.
He read the sentence over and over.
Then another message appeared.
And now you have to decide who you’re going to trust.
Arga hadn’t had time to reply when a photo came in.
The photo showed a small table in a bedroom.
On the table lay a key with the number 17.
Beside it was an old photograph.
A photo of Arga and Nara.
But what left Arga speechless wasn’t either of those two things.
On the back of the photograph, facing the camera, was handwriting he knew very well.
Nara’s handwriting.
If Arga comes with Raka, don’t open the door.
Arga read the sentence once.
Then again.
His hands began to grow cold.
He zoomed in on the photo.
In the lower-right corner of the image was a date that had just been written.
July 18, 2026.
Today.
The photo wasn’t old.
Someone had just taken it.
And someone with Nara’s handwriting had just given him a warning.
Arga stared at his phone screen.
For the first time since the first message arrived, he was no longer asking whether Nara was still alive.
The question had become something far more terrifying.
If Nara really left eleven years ago, who was still using her handwriting?