The Student Who Died
Raka woke to the sound of a chair being dragged.
For several seconds, he had no idea where he was. The white ceiling above him was too bright, the air smelled of medicine, and the throbbing pain in his head pulsed in time with the monitor beside the bed.
The hospital.
He tried to raise his hand. The IV line held him back.
“Don’t force it.”
Naya sat in the chair by the window. Her hair was tied back carelessly, her eyes were puffy, and rain still speckled her jacket. Raka’s black bag rested in her lap.
“How long was I asleep?”
“Four hours.”
“Mom?”
“She’s being treated in the next room. Her injuries aren’t serious, but they’re still examining her.”
Raka closed his eyes. Memories of the accident returned all at once: the failed brakes, the student in the middle of the road, Ardi’s figure in the back seat, and the writing on the window.
He was still alive.
That sentence should have relieved Raka. Strangely, it felt more like a threat.
“Did your dad come?” Naya asked.
“Not yet.”
“Did he call?”
Raka turned toward the small table beside the bed. His phone lay there, its screen cracked, with no missed calls.
“No.”
Naya lowered her head. “I already contacted him.”
“What did he say?”
“He didn’t answer.”
Raka felt something harden in his chest. Ever since their conversation at home, ever since his father had said Ardi wasn’t a good person, he had tried to convince himself that the man was simply afraid of an old scandal. But his silence now looked like an unfinished confession.
“Where’s the trophy?”
Naya looked at the bag in her lap.
“I found it at the accident site.”
“Did the police take it?”
“No. The officer thought it was yours.”
“It is mine.”
“Raka.”
“I need to see it.”
Naya didn’t hand over the bag right away. “Before you woke up, someone came to the ambulance.”
“Who?”
“An old woman. She said she worked at the university.”
“What was her name?”
“I didn’t get a chance to ask. She only looked at the trophy, then said, ‘Finally, it’s returned to its next owner.’”
Raka stared at her.
“Next owner?”
Naya nodded. “Then she left.”
“Did she touch the trophy?”
“No.”
“Then why didn’t you call me?”
“Because when I looked back, she was already gone. And because the trophy moved on its own inside the bag.”
The monitor beside the bed began to beep faster.
Naya finally set the bag on the table. Its zipper was open, even though she was sure she had closed it earlier.
Raka didn’t approach immediately.
“I want you to explain everything,” Naya said. “Not just about Ardi. About your family too.”
“There’s nothing I can explain.”
“Your parents are in an old competition photo. Your father’s name appears in Ardi’s letter. Your mother knew about the name erased from the trophy. And tonight you had an accident with that thing appearing in your car, even though you left it at home.”
Raka stared at the bag.
“And my dad didn’t come to visit.”
Naya fell silent.
Raka slowly got up. His head throbbed, but he kept walking toward the table. He opened the bag with two fingers.
The old trophy was wrapped in black cloth. Water dripped from its underside onto the tabletop, even though the cloth was dry.
Raka pulled the cloth away.
Ardi Pratama’s name was still engraved beneath the peeling nameplate. The new writing beneath it had changed.
ONE HAS ALREADY BEEN REPEATED.
Beneath that sentence, another set of scratches appeared—ones he had never seen before.
SEE MY DEATH.
Raka stepped back.
Naya took a picture with her phone.
“This isn’t just a curse,” she said.
“What’s the difference?”
“If it wanted to kill you, it wouldn’t need to leave clues.”
From outside the room came the sound of a bed being pushed down the hallway. A nurse stopped in front of the door, carrying a thin folder.
“Raka Mahendra?”
“Yes.”
“The doctor wants to examine you again. Someone from the university may come afterward.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Seno.”
The name made Naya and Raka exchange a look.
“Dr. Seno?” Raka asked.
The nurse nodded. “He said he wanted to make sure the competition winner was all right.”
After the nurse left, Naya stood.
“Don’t talk to him alone.”
“He was one of the competition judges.”
“He’s also the name that appears on Ardi’s score sheet.”
Raka looked at the trophy. “If he’s coming, then he knows I found something.”
“Exactly.”
The doctor’s examination was brief. Raka’s wounds didn’t require stitches, but he was asked to stay overnight for observation. He still wasn’t allowed to see his mother. When Raka returned to the room, Dr. Seno was already waiting there.
The man stood by the window, wearing the same gray suit he had worn when he handed over the trophy. His face was calm—far too calm for someone who had just heard that his student had been in a serious accident.
“How are you feeling?”
“Still alive.”
Dr. Seno gave a faint smile. “That’s something to be grateful for.”
Naya stood beside the bed. “The doctor said Raka needs to rest.”
“I won’t be long.”
Dr. Seno’s gaze dropped to the black bag on the table. His eyes stopped on the exposed edge of the cloth.
“That thing shouldn’t be here,” he said.
“It was given to me,” Raka replied.
“That doesn’t mean you have to keep it.”
“You knew Ardi Pratama?”
Dr. Seno’s smile vanished.
“An old name.”
“He was a student at this university.”
“Many students have studied here.”
“He received the same trophy.”
“He came in second.”
“Ardi’s score sheet shows he got the highest score.”
The air in the room seemed to grow heavy.
Dr. Seno didn’t answer. He only stared at Raka in a way that made Raka feel as if he were being judged—not as a patient, but as a contestant who hadn’t decided on his answer yet.
“Ardi didn’t lose,” Raka said.
“Everyone loses at something.”
“He died after his victory was stolen.”
“He killed himself.”
“You were there?”
“Where?”
“When he died.”
Dr. Seno walked toward the table. He didn’t touch the trophy, but his expression changed when he saw the writing beneath Ardi’s name.
“Where did you get that information?”
“From Ardi.”
“Dead people don’t give information.”
“Then why are you afraid?”
For the first time, Dr. Seno’s composure cracked. Not from anger. From hearing something he had both waited for and avoided for years.
Naya pulled an old photograph from her folder. “This is Raka’s father. He’s in the competition photo.”
Dr. Seno looked at the photograph. His fingers clenched at his sides.
“Burn it,” he said.
Raka fell silent.
“Burn that photo and get rid of the trophy. Don’t look for Ardi’s name anymore.”
“Why?”
“Because Ardi isn’t looking for justice.”
“Then what is he looking for?”
Dr. Seno stared at the trophy.
“A replacement.”
The room lights flickered.
The trophy gave off a long metallic sound, like someone dragging a fingernail across its surface. In the round glass ball at its top, the reflection of the room changed.
Raka saw the old stage.
A red carpet. A competition banner with faded colors. Rows of empty chairs. Ardi stood alone in the middle of the stage, holding the trophy. His face was covered in blood, but he was still smiling.
Behind him stood a young man in an event staff jacket.
His face was Raka’s father’s face.
Ardi turned toward the man.
“Say it.”
Raka’s father shook his head.
“Say that I won.”
Another voice came from the reflection—a younger Dr. Seno’s voice.
“Lower his score.”
Raka flinched. The reflection vanished.
Dr. Seno was already standing beside the door.
“You told them to change the scores,” Raka said.
“I don’t know what you saw.”
“You told them.”
“Ardi didn’t die because of a score.”
“Then why?”
Dr. Seno stared at him for a long moment.
“Because after the truth was taken from him, he had nothing left.”
“Who took it?”
Dr. Seno opened the door.
Before leaving, he said, “Ask your father what he did the night Ardi died.”
The door closed.
Naya approached Raka. “We need to find Ardi’s death records.”
“He killed himself in the old building.”
“That’s the official story.”
Raka looked at the trophy.
Water began seeping from its metal surface. The first drop fell onto the table. The second fell onto the floor.
Then a whisper came from inside the glass.
“Not suicide.”
Raka held his breath.
The whisper came again, clearer this time.
“I was pushed.”
The room door opened slightly.
In the hallway, white lights stretched all the way to the far end. There were no nurses. No doctors. Only a student standing beneath the last light, wearing an old university jacket.
Ardi raised his hand.
In his palm was a university ID card, burned along one edge.
Raka couldn’t read all of it, but the name was clear.
ARDI PRATAMA.
Beneath his name was a date of death.
The same date his father had come home carrying the second-place trophy.
Ardi pressed one finger to his lips.
Then, in a voice only Raka could hear inside his head, he said:
“Find the person who pushed me.”
The last light went out.
When it came back on, the hallway was empty.
But the ID card Ardi had been carrying lay in front of the room door.
On the back, in red ink that was still wet, was written:
HE’S STILL ALIVE.