CHAPTER 1
Rain had been falling in Arunika Village since late afternoon.
It wasn't a downpour that sent people rushing to close their windows or bring in their laundry. Just a long drizzle falling without a sound, soaking the dirt road and making the night air feel colder than usual.
Arga sat alone on the terrace of the house.
In his hand was an old photograph.
Its corners had yellowed. The surface was covered in tiny scratches. Some parts had even begun to fade with age.
But one face was still clear.
A young man.
Short hair.
A direct gaze into the camera.
And a baby in his arms.
Arga stared at that face for a long time.
He had no idea how many times he'd looked at the photograph over the course of his life.
But that night felt different.
Maybe because he was already twenty-nine.
Or maybe because the question he'd kept buried all this time had finally become too heavy to keep inside.
The man in the photograph was his father.
Bima Pratama.
A name he had almost never spoken.
Not because Arga hated him.
He didn't even know if a person could hate someone they'd never truly known.
There was only one thing Arga knew for sure.
Bima had left when Arga was only two months old.
After that, there was no father waiting for him to come home from school.
No hand holding his when he was learning to walk.
No voice calling his name from the front of the house.
Not a single memory he could call theirs.
All that remained was a photograph.
And his mother's story.
A story that always stopped in the same place.
Bima left.
He never came back.
The end.
Arga rubbed the surface of the photograph with his thumb.
“What did your voice sound like?”
He gave a small smile.
A stupid question.
But that night, he said it anyway.
“Have you ever thought of me?”
There was no answer.
Only the sound of rain dripping from the edge of the roof.
Footsteps sounded from inside the house.
“Arga?”
Arga turned.
Sari stood in the doorway.
His mother was wearing simple house clothes. Her hair, already threaded with gray, was loosely tied back.
“Why aren't you asleep yet?” Sari asked.
“I'm not sleepy.”
“You have work tomorrow.”
“Yeah.”
Sari started to go back inside.
But her eyes caught the object in Arga's hand.
The photograph.
She stopped.
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.
Then Sari said quietly,
“Where did you get that?”
“From the closet.”
“Which closet?”
“Your bedroom closet.”
Sari drew a breath.
“Why did you open it?”
“I was looking for a document.”
Arga raised the photograph slightly.
“Then I found this.”
Sari stared at it.
“That photograph is very old.”
“Why didn't you ever tell me you still had it?”
“Because it isn't important.”
Arga gave a faint smile.
“Maybe not to you.”
Sari fell silent.
“But what about me?”
Sari didn't answer.
Arga looked back at the photograph.
“Mom.”
“Yes?”
“Is Dad still alive?”
The question changed Sari's expression.
Only slightly.
But Arga saw it.
Over the years, he had learned to read the smallest changes in his mother's face whenever Bima's name came up.
Sari looked away.
“I don't know.”
That answer again.
The same answer she'd given him since he was a child.
Arga looked at his mother.
“You really don't know?”
“No.”
“You never looked for him?”
Sari fell silent.
“Never even tried?”
“Arga…”
“I'm just asking.”
Sari sighed.
“Not everything has to be searched for.”
Arga let out a small laugh.
Not because it was funny.
“Then why should I stop looking?”
Sari stared at him.
Arga stood.
“Twenty-nine years, Mom.”
His voice wasn't loud.
If anything, it was too calm.
“I never asked him to come.”
Sari said nothing.
“I never asked him for money.”
Arga lowered his gaze to the photograph.
“I don't even know who I'm supposed to be angry with.”
Sari closed her eyes.
“I just want to know…”
Arga paused.
“…why?”
Silence.
The question hung between them.
At last, Sari said,
“Go to sleep.”
Then she went inside the house.
The door closed slowly.
Arga remained standing on the terrace.
He knew his mother was avoiding the conversation.
But that night, he didn't want to force her.
He sat down again.
Then he turned the photograph over.
At first, there was nothing interesting.
Just the surface of the old paper.
But when Arga brought it closer to the terrace light, he saw something.
Small writing in blue ink.
Almost faded.
Arga narrowed his eyes.
Kalendra, 1997.
He read it once.
Then again.
Kalendra.
He had never heard the name before.
Arga picked up his phone.
He started searching.
There wasn't much information.
A village called Kalendra was located in Adikara Province.
Arga's heart began to beat faster.
He looked at the photograph again.
Then he looked at the date on his phone's screen.
Arga did the math in his head.
He had been born two years later.
Which meant the photograph had been taken before he was born.
And if it was true…
His father had been in Kalendra before Arga was born.
A new question arose.
Why had his mother kept the photograph?
And more importantly—
What had really happened in Kalendra in 1997?
Arga opened the search engine again.
This time, he typed:
Bima Pratama Kalendra.
The first result meant nothing.
Neither did the second.
But his finger stopped at the third result.
An old document.
That name was printed there.
Bima Pratama.
Arga zoomed in on the screen.
Date of birth.
Full name.
Place of origin.
Some of the information seemed to match.
Not perfectly.
But enough to make his chest tighten.
“Is this you?”
he whispered.
His eyes didn't leave the screen.
For the first time in his life, Arga felt that the figure in the photograph was no longer just part of the past.
There was a chance the man really still existed.
Somewhere.
Maybe he was still alive.
Maybe he was old by now.
Maybe he had another family.
Or maybe…
he no longer wanted to be found.
Arga turned off his phone's screen.
He looked at the photograph one more time.
“If you're still alive…”
His voice was barely audible.
“…I'll find you.”
The night grew later.
The rain began to stop.
But something inside Arga had just begun.
The next morning, Arga woke before sunrise.
He hadn't slept well.
All night, his mind had been filled with one name.
Kalendra.
He slipped the old photograph into his wallet.
Before leaving the house, he saw his mother preparing breakfast.
Sari looked at him.
“Where are you going?”
“To work.”
“You don't usually leave this early.”
Arga put on his jacket.
“I have a little business to take care of.”
“What business?”
Arga stopped at the door.
He almost told her everything.
But for some reason, he changed his mind.
“Nothing.”
Sari nodded.
Arga went outside.
He walked along the deserted village road.
But after a few steps, he stopped.
His hand slipped into his pocket.
His fingers touched the old photograph.
Arga looked up at the morning sky.
He knew this search might not be easy.
He also knew he might not find anything.
But for the first time, he had something he'd never had before.
A trace.
And sometimes, a single small trace was enough to make someone brave enough to walk very far.
Far from home.
Far from the past.
And perhaps…
far from the life he'd known all these years.
Words of Wisdom
“There is someone we never call by name, yet quietly spend our entire lives searching for.”