Arga was still kneeling in front of his desk when the message came in.
You remember the key.
He didn't reply right away.
His hand was still gripping the bottom drawer's handle. Inside, among old cables and chargers that hadn't been used in years, was a small key with a rectangular metal head. A number was engraved on it.
17.
Arga didn't know where it had come from.
He knew only one thing: he had seen it before.
Not once.
Not in a photo.
Not in a dream.
He had held the key before.
And someone had once told him to keep it.
Arga pulled the key from the drawer and placed it in his palm. The metal felt cold. It was no bigger than a locker key, but its shape was different from the ordinary keys he'd used before.
The number 17 was stamped on the head of the key.
No name.
No letters.
No other clues.
Arga looked at the message on his phone again.
He typed:
“What key?”
The three dots appeared almost instantly.
Then disappeared.
They appeared again.
This time, they stayed longer.
Finally, the reply came in.
You really have forgotten.
Arga stared at the screen.
“If I remembered, I wouldn't be asking.”
There was no answer.
He waited a few seconds before sending another message.
“What is this key for?”
The reply came.
For something you once asked Nara to keep.
Arga stopped breathing for a moment.
That name had appeared again.
Nara.
It wasn't merely implied.
It was no longer something he alone had connected to those mysterious messages.
The person behind this number knew Nara's name.
And knew about the key that had been kept in the bottom drawer of his desk for the past eleven years.
Arga stared at the key in his hand.
Then he asked:
“Who are you?”
This time, the reply was only one sentence.
If you want to know, go to the last place where you left something with Nara.
Arga read the sentence twice.
The last place.
Left something.
With Nara.
He tried to remember.
He couldn't.
But before he could reply, a new message appeared.
Don't bring anyone.
After that, the number sent nothing else.
Arga watched the screen slowly go dark again.
He didn't know what the person was really doing. This could all be a game. Someone might have found his old things, learned a little about his past, and decided to toy with his memories.
But the more messages came in, the harder it became for him to believe that possibility.
There were too many things that were too specific.
The photo.
The train ticket.
The voice recording.
The key.
And now a place he didn't even remember.
Arga stood.
The key was still in his hand.
He carried it to the living room table and set it beside his laptop.
Then he took a sheet of paper and wrote down the things he knew.
July 17, 2015.
Jakarta—Bandung.
Nara.
Bandung Station.
Raka.
Key 17.
Beneath that, he added:
What happened that night?
Arga stared at the list.
For the first time, he realized that all this time, he had never truly searched for answers about Nara.
He had simply accepted the version of the story that remained after everything happened.
Nara left.
That was what he knew.
That was what people told him.
That was what he eventually accepted.
But where did she go?
Why?
What really happened on their last night together?
And why didn't he remember it?
Those questions felt far more disturbing than the messages from a stranger's number.
Because if the sender was telling the truth, then someone wasn't trying to disrupt Arga's life.
Someone was trying to return a part of his life that had disappeared from his memory.
11:14 p.m.
Arga opened his laptop again.
He went back to the 2015 folder.
This time, he didn't open the N folder.
He opened another one.
Bandung.
There were only twelve files.
A few street photos, pictures of campus buildings, food, and several photos of himself with his friends.
Arga checked them one by one.
There were no photos from July 17.
Then he saw a video file.
Its name was simple.
1707.
Arga stared at the filename for a long time.
He didn't remember ever making it.
The file was only around two hundred megabytes.
Duration:
08:41.
Arga put on his earphones.
Then pressed play.
The screen showed an unsteady moving image. The camera seemed to be held by someone walking. Afternoon light filtered through the trees. The sounds of vehicles and several people's voices drifted faintly in the background.
Arga recognized the place.
Bandung.
He watched without moving.
At the two-minute mark, the camera turned toward Nara.
She was walking several yards ahead.
Her hair was tied back.
She turned toward the camera.
“You're still recording?”
Arga's voice came from behind the camera.
“Documentation.”
Nara laughed.
“Documentation for what?”
“For the future.”
“If the future sees this, they'll be so embarrassed.”
Arga smiled without realizing it.
It was such an ordinary conversation.
Too ordinary.
He almost forgot why the video made him feel uneasy.
The video continued.
At the four-minute mark, they sat down at a place to eat.
Raka appeared.
Dito did too.
They joked around.
Talked about their plans to go home.
Nothing seemed strange.
Arga sped up the video.
Five minutes.
Six.
Seven.
Then the image changed.
Night.
Rain.
Arga paused the video.
His heart began beating faster.
He rewound a few seconds.
Then played it again.
The image was too dark to make out anyone's face. The camera moved from inside a car. Vehicle lights blurred behind the rain-streaked window.
Raka's voice could be heard.
“Ga, don't get out.”
Then Arga's own voice.
“They're outside.”
A car door opened.
The video shook.
Nara's voice came faintly.
“Arga!”
Then someone screamed.
The long squeal of brakes rang out.
The video stopped.
The screen went black.
Arga sat frozen.
He played the video one more time.
This time, he didn't watch the image.
He only listened.
“Ga, don't get out.”
“They're outside.”
“Arga!”
The sound of brakes.
Then it ended.
Arga removed his earphones.
He didn't know who Raka had meant when he said they.
He also didn't know who had been outside the car.
But one thing was becoming clear.
The memory he had carried of that night was not the whole story.
A part of it was missing.
And maybe it hadn't gone missing by accident.