It rained that night.
Not heavily.
Just enough to cover the office windows with dots of water.
Arga was still at his desk when most of the employees had already gone home.
Maya stood by the door, her bag over one shoulder.
"Are you heading home?"
"In fifteen minutes."
"You said that half an hour ago."
"Then that means I only have fifteen minutes left."
Maya sighed.
"Have you eaten?"
"Yes."
"Really?"
"Really."
"Don't lie."
Arga smiled.
"Why are you acting like somebody's mom?"
"Because you're acting like a broke college kid."
Maya walked toward the elevator.
Then stopped.
"Don't forget tomorrow."
"Forget what?"
Maya looked at him as though she'd just lost patience with a little kid.
"Your birthday."
Arga frowned.
"Tomorrow?"
"Yeah."
"Oh."
"Oh?"
"Yeah."
Maya let out a soft laugh.
"Okay. I'm leaving."
The elevator doors closed.
Arga stood alone in the hallway.
He saw his reflection in the elevator's polished doors.
His birthday was tomorrow.
He'd completely forgotten.
It wasn't unusual. For the past few years, he hadn't cared much about his birthday.
The number went up.
Life went on.
Not much changed.
He went back to his desk, finished his work, and headed home at nearly ten.
The apartment felt colder when Arga walked in.
He turned on the living room light and set his bag on the sofa.
There was no sound.
No one was there.
He opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle of water, then stood by the window.
Jakarta looked like a sea of lights.
From that height, people were no more than tiny dots moving silently.
Arga had once thought that might be why people liked tall buildings.
From above, every problem looked smaller.
He took a drink of water.
His phone vibrated.
A message from Maya.
«Happy birthday in advance. I was afraid you'd forget again tomorrow. »
Arga smiled.
«It's not midnight yet. »
«I know. »
«Then it's not my birthday yet. »
«Whatever. »
Arga set his phone down.
Then he noticed something on the table.
A small black box.
He didn't remember putting it there.
Arga walked closer.
The box turned out to be his.
He remembered now.
It had been in his desk drawer for a long time, but a few days earlier, he'd cleaned out the drawer and moved some of his things home.
He opened it.
Inside were a few old things.
Business cards.
A train ticket.
A small key whose lock he no longer knew.
A flash drive.
And several photographs.
Arga picked up the top photo.
It showed him with three other people.
He was young in it.
His face was much thinner.
His hair was longer.
They were all laughing.
Arga didn't turn the photo over right away.
He only looked at it.
For a long time.
Then his eyes stopped on a woman at the right.
Long hair.
A white T-shirt.
A blue jacket hanging half open.
She was turning toward the camera with a smile.
Arga knew that face.
Of course he did.
Some faces might fade from memory after so many years.
That face hadn't.
Nara.
He turned the photo over.
There was handwriting on the back.
A single date.
July 17, 2015.
No other explanation.
Arga ran his thumb over the writing.
Eleven years.
A strange amount of time.
Long enough to turn someone into a stranger.
Long enough to change a city.
Long enough for someone to get married, have children, move houses, change jobs, and even forget a phone number they'd once known by heart.
But not always long enough to erase a face.
Arga put the photo back.
He closed the box.
Then he put it in the drawer.
This time, he locked it.
There was no reason to keep it out in the open.
It was just the past.
And the past, Arga believed, belonged where it was.
At 12:07 a.m., Arga still wasn't asleep.
He was reading a book in bed when his phone vibrated.
A new message.
An unknown number.
Arga stared at the screen.
It wasn't a number from Indonesia that he recognized.
He opened the message.
There was only one sentence.
Happy birthday, Arga.
He frowned.
Maybe it was the wrong number.
He was about to delete the message when a second one came in.
I hope you're not alone this year.
Arga stopped.
There was no name.
No profile picture.
He read both messages again.
Then he looked at the clock.
12:08.
He typed:
«Who is this? »
The message sent.
There was no reply.
Arga waited.
One minute.
Two minutes.
Five minutes.
Nothing.
Finally, he set the phone on the nightstand.
Maybe someone was joking around.
Maybe it was Maya.
Maybe it was an old friend whose number he no longer had saved.
Maybe it had been sent to the wrong person.
There were plenty of possibilities.
Arga turned off the light.
But before he could fully close his eyes, his phone vibrated again.
This time, there was only one message.
Arga reached for it.
He opened the screen.
Then he read the sentence that made his entire body go still.
You still have our picture, right?
Arga didn't move.
In the dark room, the phone's light illuminated his face.
He read the sentence once.
Then again.
His hand slowly lowered.
On the nightstand, the small key that had been inside the black box now lay beside the book.
Arga stared at it.
He didn't know why, but suddenly he remembered one thing.
One night.
One street.
A woman's voice that had once said to him:
"If I ever disappear, don't look for me."
Eleven years ago, Arga had thought it was just an ordinary sentence.
That night, for the first time in years, he wondered whether he'd been remembering it wrong all along.
His phone vibrated one more time.
The final message came in.
I'm home.