The doors of the old building locked simultaneously.
The sound was like a row of bones snapping one by one.
Raka pulled the door handle behind him. It did not move. Naya tried another door, then kicked it with her heel. Only dust fell from the frame.
“Open up!” she shouted.
Dr. Seno was still standing at the end of the hallway. His gray coat looked far too clean for a room full of dust and the smell of burnt paper. Behind him, Ardi’s figure stood in silence.
“If I could open it,” Seno said, “I wouldn’t be waiting for you to bring me that box.”
Raka hugged the box of records to his chest. “My Dad told me not to trust you.”
“Good. For once, your father said something true.”
Naya raised her phone. “We have proof that you falsified Ardi’s scores.”
“Proof?” Seno smiled faintly. “You’ve only found a record that was deliberately left there to be discovered.”
“That record has your signature on it.”
“And the recording from earlier?”
His smile vanished.
“The recording is incomplete.”
“It’s enough to prove that Ardi was pushed,” Raka said.
“Enough to get you killed before you have the chance to prove anything.”
The hallway lights flickered. When the light came back on, Ardi was no longer behind Seno.
Raka turned toward the archive room door. A wet shadow seeped out from beneath the gap.
Naya whispered, “He went in there.”
The archive room door opened on its own.
From inside came the sound of a tape spinning, even though the player was in their room. Ardi’s voice emerged from behind the door, closer than before.
“Your father didn’t push me.”
Raka stared at Seno.
“He said my father saw who pushed you.”
“He saw,” Seno replied. “But seeing isn’t the same as being brave enough to speak.”
“Who was it?”
Seno shifted his gaze to the box of records.
“The person who won first place after your name was crossed out.”
Raka felt his fingers go numb. “Who?”
“Open the bottom file.”
Naya immediately knelt beside the metal cabinet. She pulled at the stuck drawer, then used the tip of a key to pry at the latch. The drawer opened with a loud screech.
There was only one brown folder inside.
The name on the cover made Raka forget to breathe.
RAKA ADITYA.
“That’s not my name,” he said.
“Open it,” Seno ordered.
“Why is there a file on me here?”
“Because from the beginning, that competition was never about Ardi.”
Naya opened the folder. Inside were a registration form, a copy of a student ID, and a recommendation letter from Raka’s father. Every document was dated six years earlier, when Raka was still in elementary school.
Tucked beneath everything was a sheet of paper in his mother’s handwriting.
DO NOT ENTER RAKA IN THE LIST.
Raka snatched up the paper.
“Mom knew?”
Seno did not answer.
“Why is my name on the competition list?”
“Because you were supposed to be the alternate contestant.”
Naya frowned. “He was still a child back then.”
“His talent was already obvious. His father entered his name in secret. Ardi found the list and protested. He knew the competition had been rigged before it even began.”
Raka stared at the folder in his hands. “Then why was Ardi the one who competed?”
“Because your mother forced you to withdraw.”
The paper trembled between his fingers.
The room suddenly turned cold.
The posters in the hallway lifted off the floor. On the glass door, condensation formed a new sentence.
NOT RAKA.
Then the words erased themselves.
Naya stood in front of Raka. “Ardi didn’t hate him.”
“No,” Seno said. “Ardi hated everyone who treated victory as their family’s property.”
“Don’t talk like you weren’t involved,” Raka shot back.
Seno lowered his head. “I signed the altered scores.”
“Because you were ordered to?”
“Because I was afraid.”
“Afraid of whom?”
Seno raised his face. “The person who is now staying at the hospital with your mother.”
Raka’s phone vibrated.
His father’s number.
He pressed answer, but all he heard was breathing.
“Dad?”
There was no answer.
Then his father’s voice emerged, very softly.
“Raka, listen to me. Don’t take that box outside.”
“Where are you?”
“Don’t trust Seno.”
“Who pushed Ardi?”
Silence.
Another voice came through the phone. A woman’s voice. His mother’s voice.
“Raka, don’t come home.”
Raka looked at Naya.
His mother was still at the hospital.
“Mom?”
The voice came again, closer this time.
“He’s already here.”
The call disconnected.
At the end of the hallway, Dr. Seno suddenly stepped back. The color drained from his face.
“Who?” Raka asked.
Seno looked toward the stairs.
“The person who never dies.”
Footsteps sounded from the floor above.
One.
Two.
Three.
Someone descended the stairs without hurrying. The emergency light touched the tip of a black shoe, then a pair of trousers, and finally the figure of a woman in a hospital jacket.
Raka recognized her face.
His mother.
But his real mother was lying in a hospital bed.
The woman stopped on the bottom step. Her hair was wet. Water dripped from the ends onto the floor.
She smiled at Raka.
“My son,” she said.
Naya pulled Raka backward.
Seno whispered, “Don’t answer.”
The woman tilted her head.
“Why are you so quiet? Didn’t you come looking for the archive room?”
Raka gripped the brown folder and the box of records at the same time. “Who are you?”
The woman let out a soft laugh.
The sound was exactly the same as his mother’s laugh.
“The one who’s been waiting for you since the day you won second place.”
Behind her, Ardi emerged from the darkness of the stairs. This time, his face was clearly visible. Blood ran from his temple down to his neck, but his eyes were fixed on the woman.
“Don’t listen to her,” Ardi said.
The woman turned toward him.
“The failed child still likes to blame everyone else.”
Ardi’s face changed. A black shadow stretched from his feet and crawled across the entire floor.
Seno shouted, “Raka, open the box!”
“What for?”
“It contains the name of the person who actually won.”
The woman stepped down from the stairs.
“Don’t.”
Raka opened the clasp on the box of records.
At the bottom of the box, directly beneath the old tape, was a white envelope. Its seal had blackened from the fire. He pulled out the envelope and tore open the top.
A single sheet of paper fell to the floor.
The national competition winners list.
First place: Ardi Pratama.
Second place: Raka Aditya.
Raka stared at his own name.
He had never entered that competition.
Beside his name was his father’s signature.
And beneath it, one sentence was written:
THE ALTERNATE CONTESTANT WILL RECEIVE THE VICTORY AFTER THE ORIGINAL CONTESTANT HAS BEEN DISAPPEARED.
The woman stopped directly in front of Raka.
“Do you remember now?”
Raka backed up until his shoulders hit the metal cabinet.
Fragments of images burst into his mind: a stage flooded with light, Ardi’s bloody hands, his father screaming, and the trophy being placed into his small hands.
Not a memory.
Something that had been taken from him all this time.
Ardi stared at Raka from across the room.
“You weren’t the one who won second place,” he said.
The woman’s smile grew wider.
“You won first place.”
All the lights went out.
In the darkness, someone’s hand reached for Raka’s wrist.
Not Ardi’s hand.
The hand was warm.
And his father’s voice whispered right beside his ear:
“Forgive me, son.”
Then the box of records slipped from Raka’s chest.
Something fell out and rolled across the floor.
The old trophy.
A new number was engraved on its surface.
1.