The next night felt quieter than usual.
The city was still alive as always—vehicle lights moved along the main road, a few shops remained open, and the occasional sound of motorcycle engines broke the silence. But for Damar, all of it felt distant.
His mind was still left behind in that narrow alley.
At the coffee stall that only appeared after midnight.
He walked faster than usual.
As if something was pulling him back to that place.
As if something was waiting for him.
When he reached the end of the alley, his steps slowed.
The alley looked the same as the night before.
Narrow.
Slightly dark.
The dim yellow light from the stall at the end reflected on the slightly wet concrete floor.
The stall was there.
Damar didn't know why he felt relieved seeing it.
But before he could step closer—
he stopped.
Because someone was already sitting on one of the chairs.
The person's back was facing him.
Someone was sitting in front of Pak Raka's wooden table.
The small lamp above the stall illuminated part of his shoulder.
A man.
Wearing a dark jacket.
His head slightly lowered, like someone waiting.
Damar frowned.
Usually, when he came, the stall was empty.
He stepped closer slowly.
Pak Raka stood behind the table as usual.
Pouring coffee.
But the old man's expression was different tonight.
More serious.
As if he had been waiting for something.
Or someone.
Damar took a few more steps forward.
And at that moment—
the person sitting on the chair slowly turned.
The world seemed to stop.
Damar's breath caught.
His heart pounded loudly.
No.
Impossible.
That face…
he knew it.
Very well.
Too well.
Even more than his own.
"Damar," the man said softly.
The voice was the same.
Exactly the same.
Damar felt his knees almost give way.
"Bimo…?"
The name slipped out of his mouth.
The man smiled faintly.
"It's been a long time since you called me that."
Damar stepped back.
His eyes didn't blink.
Bimo.
His best friend since college.
The one who shared dreams of writing with him.
The one who lived in the same boarding house.
The one who was always the first reader of every story he wrote.
The one who—
died three years ago.
Damar himself attended his funeral.
He stood near the grave when the first soil was thrown onto the wooden coffin.
He remembered everything.
Clearly.
But now—
that man was sitting in Pak Raka's coffee stall.
Looking at him.
Smiling.
As if nothing had ever happened.
Damar quickly turned to Pak Raka.
"Sir…?"
Pak Raka didn't look surprised.
He simply pushed a cup of coffee toward Bimo.
"Drink."
Bimo took the cup.
He sipped slowly.
His expression changed slightly.
"It tastes the same as before," he said.
Damar looked at both of them in confusion.
"Sir… this isn't possible."
Pak Raka looked at him calmly.
"Why not?"
"Because he—"
Damar turned to Bimo.
"He's dead."
Silence fell.
The small lamp above the stall swayed gently in the night wind.
Bimo didn't look offended.
He simply smiled faintly.
"Yes."
The answer was very simple.
But that was exactly what made Damar's chest feel tighter.
"So… what is this?"
Bimo looked at the coffee in his hand.
"I don't know either."
He looked at Pak Raka.
"He said I could wait here."
Damar turned back to Pak Raka.
"Wait for what?"
Pak Raka shrugged slightly.
"A conversation."
Damar almost laughed out of confusion.
"A conversation?"
Bimo looked at him.
"Haven't we always had a lot of things left unsaid?"
That sentence made something in Damar's chest feel heavy.
It was true.
When Bimo died, there were many things they never finished.
Many plans.
Many dreams.
Many conversations.
Everything stopped just like that.
Damar slowly sat down on the empty chair in front of Bimo.
His hands were still trembling.
He studied his friend's face carefully.
Every detail was the same.
The way he raised his eyebrows.
The way he held his cup.
The way he smiled slightly.
Everything was the same.
"Is this a dream…?" Damar asked.
Bimo chuckled softly.
"If this is a dream, then we're dreaming together."
Damar looked at Pak Raka again.
But the old man only said—
"Drink your coffee."
Damar didn't know what else to say.
He took the cup offered by Pak Raka.
Sipped slowly.
Warm.
Real.
Too real to be a dream.
Bimo placed his cup on the table.
"It's been three years," he said.
Damar nodded slowly.
"Yes."
"How's your life?"
The simple question felt very heavy.
Damar let out a long breath.
"Not like we imagined."
Bimo smiled faintly.
"It rarely is."
Silence fell for a few seconds.
Then Damar finally said—
"Bimo… I attended your funeral."
Bimo nodded.
"I know."
"How could you know?"
Bimo looked at the small lamp above the stall.
"Because I saw it."
Damar froze.
"You… saw it?"
Bimo looked at him again.
"A lot of strange things happen after someone dies."
Damar didn't know how to react.
He glanced again at Pak Raka.
But the old man simply stood quietly behind the table.
As if this conversation was meant to happen.
Damar looked back at Bimo.
"Why are you here?"
Bimo held his cup again.
"I'm trying to understand that too."
He looked at Pak Raka.
"He said… before I go any further…"
He paused.
"…I have to finish one conversation."
Damar felt his heart beating faster.
"With who?"
Bimo smiled.
"With you."
The small lamp above the stall swayed gently.
The night wind drifted in from the end of the alley.
Damar looked at his friend's face.
The person he thought he would never see again.
"What conversation?"
Bimo looked at him for a long time.
Then said softly—
"The conversation we should have had three years ago."
Damar felt something heavy in his chest.
He knew exactly what Bimo meant.
One night.
Three years ago.
The night they had a huge argument.
The last night they spoke.
Before the accident that took Bimo's life.
Damar gripped his coffee cup tighter.
"So… this is about that night?"
Bimo nodded.
"Yes."
Silence fell again.
But this time it was different.
Deeper.
Heavier.
Because Damar knew—
the conversation that would happen in this stall tonight…
might be his last chance.
The last chance to say something he never had the chance to say.
The silence did not break.
It deepened.
As if the small coffee stall could no longer contain what had just been said.
Damar felt his throat tighten.
"…someone told you to leave?" he repeated slowly.
Rian nodded, his face pale, his eyes unfocused—as if he was no longer in the stall, but back on that rain-soaked road three years ago.
"Yes."
Bimo did not speak.
But something in his gaze shifted.
Not anger.
Not yet.
Something sharper.
Something that had been waiting.
"Who?" Bimo asked quietly.
The question hung in the air like a blade.
Rian swallowed.
His fingers trembled against the edge of the table.
"I… I didn't see clearly at first," he said. "It was raining. Hard. The streetlight was flickering."
His breathing grew uneven.
"I stepped out of the car. I saw you lying there."
Damar clenched his jaw.
The image forced its way into his mind—
wet asphalt
dim headlights
a body that didn't move
Rian continued, his voice cracking.
"And then… I heard a voice."
Bimo leaned slightly forward.
"What did it say?"
Rian closed his eyes tightly.
"As if someone was right behind me…"
His voice dropped into a whisper.
"Leave. Now."
A sudden gust of wind rushed through the alley.
The hanging lamp swayed violently.
Damar's heart pounded.
"Who was it?" he pressed.
Rian shook his head quickly.
"I didn't turn around immediately."
"Why not?" Bimo asked.
Rian laughed weakly—empty, broken.
"Because I was afraid."
Silence.
Heavy.
Breathing filled the space between them.
"I finally looked back," Rian continued. "But…"
He opened his eyes slowly.
"…there was no one there."
Damar frowned.
"No one?"
Rian nodded.
"Just the road. The rain. My car."
He gripped his hair.
"But I know I heard it."
Bimo watched him carefully.
"Then why did you listen?"
Rian froze.
The question struck deeper than anything else.
"I…" he struggled. "I don't know."
Bimo's voice remained calm.
"Yes, you do."
Rian's lips trembled.
"I was already panicking," he admitted. "And when I heard that voice…"
He looked up, eyes filled with something raw.
"…it felt like permission."
The words landed hard.
Damar exhaled slowly.
Permission.
Not command.
Not force.
Just—
a way out.
Bimo leaned back slightly.
His expression returned to that unsettling calm.
"So you left," he said.
Rian nodded.
"I drove away."
His voice was barely audible now.
"I didn't even check again."
The stall fell into silence once more.
But this time, it was no longer just heavy.
It was suffocating.
Behind the counter, Pak Raka reached for the old book again.
The pages turned softly.
Damar glanced at it—
Bimo Pratama
Rian
The empty marks beside their names seemed to pulse in the dim light.
Waiting.
Still waiting.
"Do you remember anything else?" Bimo asked.
Rian hesitated.
"…yes."
Damar looked at him sharply.
Rian's eyes flickered.
"When I got back into the car…"
He paused.
"There was something on the passenger seat."
Bimo's gaze sharpened.
"What?"
Rian's breathing quickened again.
"A piece of paper."
Damar frowned.
"A paper?"
Rian nodded slowly.
"I don't know where it came from. It wasn't there before."
His hands tightened.
"There was writing on it."
The lamp flickered again.
Once.
Twice.
Bimo's voice dropped lower.
"What did it say?"
Rian looked straight at him.
And for the first time—
his fear turned into something else.
Confusion.
"A name."
Damar felt a chill crawl up his spine.
"What name?" he asked.
Rian opened his mouth.
But no sound came out.
His expression suddenly changed.
Like someone trying to remember something that was being pulled away.
"I… I can't…"
He pressed his fingers against his temple.
"It was right there—I remember reading it—"
The wind howled through the alley.
The lamp shook violently.
Pak Raka suddenly spoke—
"That's enough."
All three turned toward him.
His voice was calm.
But firm.
Stronger than before.
"Time is ending."
Damar looked toward the alley.
The sky was no longer dark.
A faint blue had begun to seep in.
Dawn.
Too soon.
"No—wait," Damar said quickly. "He hasn't finished."
Pak Raka shook his head slowly.
"Some things cannot be carried past sunrise."
Rian looked panicked now.
"No—I need to remember—"
Bimo stood up.
The movement was slow.
Deliberate.
"It's alright," he said.
Rian looked at him desperately.
"No, it's not. You deserve to know—"
Bimo interrupted softly.
"I already know enough."
Silence.
Rian froze.
Damar stared at Bimo.
"What do you mean?" Damar asked.
Bimo turned slightly toward him.
"The rest…" he said quietly, "…is not just about him."
He glanced at Pak Raka.
Then back at Rian.
"It's about choice."
The word lingered.
Rian's shoulders trembled.
"I didn't mean to kill you."
Bimo nodded once.
"I know."
"I was scared."
"I know."
"I've regretted it every day."
Bimo looked at him for a long moment.
Then asked the one question that mattered—
"Have you ever told anyone the truth?"
Rian froze.
His silence was the answer.
Bimo closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them again—
there was something resolved in his expression.
Not peace.
Not yet.
But direction.
The first call to prayer echoed faintly in the distance.
Soft.
Distant.
But undeniable.
Pak Raka closed the book.
The sound was final.
"It's time."
The air shifted.
Rian looked around in panic.
"Wait—what happens now?"
Bimo stepped back.
His figure already beginning to blur at the edges.
"You choose," he said.
Rian's voice shook.
"Choose what?"
Bimo gave a faint, almost sad smile.
"What you should have chosen three years ago."
Damar felt his chest tighten.
Rian looked between them.
"I don't understand—"
But his words faltered.
Because something was happening.
The alley light grew brighter—
but the stall itself seemed dimmer.
Fading.
Like a place that did not belong to morning.
Rian looked at Bimo one last time.
"What should I do?" he asked, almost like a child.
Bimo didn't answer directly.
He simply said—
"Don't run this time."
The wind surged.
The lamp flickered wildly—
and then—
everything went still.
The chair across the table was empty.
Bimo was gone.
Rian stood frozen in place.
Damar barely had time to process it—
before the world shifted again.
The warmth of the stall faded.
The smell of coffee disappeared.
And when Damar blinked—
he was standing alone at the end of the alley.
No stall.
No table.
No Pak Raka.
Only the early morning light.
And the distant sound of the city waking up.
Damar turned quickly.
The alley was empty.
As if nothing had ever been there.
But in his hand—
he was still holding a cup.
Warm.
Real.
And somewhere far away—
a siren began to echo through the city.
Damar's heart sank.
Because somehow—
he knew.
This story—
was no longer just about the past.
It was moving forward.
And tonight—
someone would have to make a choice that could no longer be undone.