The fog in Astina City was rolling thicker than usual this morning, as though nature itself were conspiring to conceal the old wounds gaping open once more. Arlan Dewangga walked slowly through the rust-eaten iron gates of Swara Park. Every scrape of his boots against the damp-rotting carpet of dry leaves gave birth to a monotonous rhythm—a silent cadence that cut straight through his heart.
Every inch of this park had become a memory minefield, ready to explode at any moment. On that wooden bench covered in the remnants of peeling paint, they had once woven dreams of the future—dreams that were now nothing more than tragic bedtime stories. Arlan felt the camera strap hanging from his shoulder and gripped it tightly, trying to divert the turmoil in his chest.
His knuckles had gone numb, not merely from the cold biting into his skin, but from the sudden wild pounding of his heart. He knew Maya was somewhere beyond this fog. Danu had told him the night before that the Swara Park revitalization project was about to begin, with Maya Kirana serving as the lead architect.
Arlan drew a deep breath, letting the scent of wet earth and thick moss fill his lungs as he tried to summon a calm that could never come. In the distance, right beside the long-dead fountain covered in lichen, he caught sight of her. A woman in a light brown wool coat stood straight, her back to him.
The jet-black hair Arlan had once so often run his fingers through was now neatly pinned up, revealing the long, elegant nape of her neck. Maya was holding a large roll of paper—the park blueprints—while pointing toward the dry pond with clear, authoritative gestures. Arlan froze, his feet seeming to take root in the earth.
His world seemed to stop turning, leaving behind only a dense silence humming in his ears.
“Make sure the roots of these old trees aren’t damaged. We’re restoring this place, not burning its history to the ground,” Maya said firmly, her clear voice slicing through the biting morning air.
Her voice was still the same—melodious, but now carrying a firmness Arlan had never heard five years ago. There was a weight to it, a fortress built from hard work and perhaps the tears he himself had caused. Arlan forced himself to move.
Every step felt like climbing an impossibly steep cliff. The distance between them kept shrinking, yet it felt like thousands of impossible miles lay between them. When he stopped a few yards directly behind Maya, his breath caught.
His throat was parched, his tongue useless. Arlan wanted to call out that name, but the word caught somewhere between his hesitation and the guilt surging through him. Maya seemed to sense someone behind her.
The woman’s movements froze at once. Her shoulders tensed, and then, slowly, she turned. The roll of paper in her hands slipped down a few inches.
When their eyes met, time seemed to stop ticking. Arlan caught the flash of surprise in Maya’s brown eyes, which dimmed in an instant, replaced by a fog of anger and profound hurt. There was no warm smile, much less an embrace filled with longing—only an icy stare sharp enough to pierce Arlan’s ribs.
“Maya,” Arlan whispered.
The sound came out like a fragile murmur, nearly swept away by the wind threading through the bare, dry branches. Maya didn’t answer right away. She looked at Arlan as though he were a ghost from the past that had suddenly begun haunting her without invitation.
Maya drew a long breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly, betraying the turmoil she was trying to conceal behind an impassive expression. She adjusted her glasses with slightly trembling fingers, but kept her body straight, refusing to appear fragile before the man who had once destroyed her life.
“What are you doing here, Arlan?” Maya’s voice was extraordinarily cold, devoid of emotion, as if she were interrogating a lost stranger who had wandered into her work site.
There was no warm greeting, nor any acknowledgment of the five years that had vanished without explanation. Arlan lowered his head, fixing his gaze on the toes of his shoes stained with mud.
“I... I’m back in Astina. I was assigned to document the revitalization project for this park.”
Arlan told a small lie. In truth, he had volunteered the moment he learned Maya was leading the project, placing his hopes in the narrowest opening through which he might simply beg for forgiveness. Maya gave a cynical snort, letting out a bitter laugh that squeezed Arlan’s heart.
“Document it?
“After disappearing for five years as though the earth swallowed you, you suddenly show up here as a photographer? Do you think this is a joke?” Maya stepped forward, radiating an intimidation that made Arlan retreat reflexively.
Her eyes blazed, as though she intended to peel away every inch of the lie the man had brought with him.
“I know I have no right to show up in front of you, Maya. But I just wanted to...” Arlan’s sentence broke off when Maya raised a hand, holding it in the air with a firm gesture that silenced him instantly.
“You’re right.
“You have absolutely no right!” Maya cut in, her voice slicing through the silence. “Don’t say my name as though we still have a relationship. As far as I’m concerned, Arlan Dewangga died five years ago—exactly on the day that was supposed to be the happiest day of my life.
“The man standing in front of me now is nothing but a stranger who happens to wear a camera around his neck.”
The words struck Arlan harder than any physical blow. His chest suddenly tightened, as though all the oxygen in Swara Park had vanished. He wanted to spill every explanation about his failure overseas, about the suffocating shame that had left him unable to send even a single message, and about how he suffered every night, longing for the jasmine scent that rose from Maya’s skin.
But as he looked into Maya’s eyes, now clouded with hatred, Arlan realized that any explanation would sound like nothing more than a pathetic defense.
“Darling, is there a problem?” A calm voice suddenly broke the tension stretched between them. Arlan turned and saw a broad-shouldered man in a neatly worn flannel shirt walking toward them.
The man exuded an aura of mature prosperity and stability—starkly contrasting with Arlan’s rumpled, disheveled appearance. He was Satria Adiguna. Arlan recognized him immediately from a photo Danu had shown him the other day.
Satria strode forward with confidence, took his place beside Maya, and slipped an arm around her waist in an intimate, protective gesture. The movement felt so natural, so legitimate, that it jolted Arlan into realizing he was now nothing more than an intruder in a life someone else had taken from him. Maya didn’t resist at all; instead, she leaned half her weight against Satria, as though seeking his strength for support.
“Nothing’s wrong, Satria,” Maya replied, her voice softening at once as she spoke to her fiancé.
“He’s just a photographer assigned to document this project. His name is... Arlan.”
Satria narrowed his eyes and studied Arlan.
As a capable urban planner, the man could surely sense the tension pulsing through the air. Still, Satria maintained his polite facade, though a faintly cold note slipped into his voice.
“Arlan? Oh, so you’re the photographer recommended by the city department?
“I’m Satria, Maya’s fiancé and the person in charge of the spatial planning for this project. It’s nice to meet you.”
Satria extended his right hand. Arlan stared at those solid fingers for several agonizing seconds before finally taking it.
Satria’s handshake was firm and steady, as though he wanted to make clear who held complete control over this ground. Arlan felt painfully small, tasting defeat before the drums of war had even sounded.
“Arlan Dewangga,” Arlan replied curtly.
He could feel Maya’s eyes continuing to strip apart his every movement, as though waiting for him to make a fatal mistake or explode with emotion. But Arlan chose to remain silent, swallowing the bitter reality that the position that should have been his had now been perfectly filled by a man like Satria.
“We’re surveying the pond area, Arlan,” Satria said, turning a fond gaze toward Maya. “You could start taking a few shots to document the park’s initial condition.
“Don’t hesitate to ask Maya if you need technical help with the landscape details. She’s the expert here.”
“I doubt he needs my help, Satria,” Maya cut in quickly, her sharp tone unmistakable. “He’s very good at coming and going whenever he pleases.
“I’m sure he can find his own way around this park, just like he used to.”
The jab struck Arlan squarely in the heart. Satria seemed slightly disturbed by the sharpness of his fiancée’s words, but he quickly regained control, offering a faint smile as he gently rubbed Maya’s shoulder.
“That’s enough. Let’s continue to the building area. We don’t have much time before the thick fog rolls in again.”
Maya nodded obediently. She turned without giving Arlan even a farewell glance.
She walked away alongside Satria, leaving Arlan standing frozen in the suffocating silence of Swara Park. Arlan watched their backs; he saw Satria bend down to whisper something in Maya’s ear, and Maya let out a small laugh—a bright, crisp laugh that had once belonged only to him. Slowly, Arlan raised his camera and aimed at their silhouettes as they gradually blurred into the thick fog.
His index finger trembled violently as he pressed the shutter. Click. A single frame was born, capturing someone else’s happiness atop the ruins of his own life.
Arlan felt like a thief spying on his own past, which had now mutated into another man’s future. He dragged himself toward a sturdy banyan tree in the corner of the park, the place they had once often used as a silent witness while carving their initials into its trunk. His fingers traced the rough, wrinkled bark, searching for the remnants of the carving.
But the banyan had grown far too massive, and thick moss covered its entire surface. The carved initials had vanished without a trace, just like the sweet promises they had once whispered beneath its leafy branches. Suddenly, the scrape of footsteps over dry leaves sounded again.
Arlan turned quickly, a spark of hope rising that Maya had come back to have a heart-to-heart talk. But it was Danu who emerged from behind the wild bushes, a guitar slung across his back and an unlit cigarette clenched between his lips.
“I told you, didn’t I? Meeting her would only make you want to jump off a cliff,” Danu joked as he approached, sympathy shining in his eyes despite the casual tone he deliberately used to hide it. “She’s changed, Lan. The Maya you used to know is gone. The woman standing over there now is a cold-blooded architect who’s about to marry a rich man.”
“I know, Nu.
“I just... didn’t expect it to hurt this much, seeing her with someone else.” Arlan leaned his back against the sturdy banyan, letting the tree’s cold skin seep through the fibers of his jacket. “Satria looks like a good, established man. He can protect her in ways I never could.”
“Don’t start with that lonely-hero syndrome of yours again,” Danu scoffed as he lit the end of his cigarette with a gas lighter. “You left because you were afraid of failing, not because your love disappeared. And now you’ve come back exactly when she’s already found a new harbor. You know what hurts far more than simply losing someone?”
Danu paused, exhaling a thick cloud of white smoke into the cold, foggy air. “Being seated in the front row, watching the person you love most find happiness precisely because you’re not there.”
Arlan fell utterly silent. Danu’s words struck like the sharpest truth he had ever heard in his life. He looked toward the hazy pavilion, where Maya and Satria’s silhouettes could still be faintly seen talking behind the fog.
He knew he had to leave soon, get out of this city, and let Maya weave her own happiness. Yet there had been something strange in Maya’s eyes moments ago—a wound still gaping and wet, an ancient anger proving that she had not entirely erased him from her memory. Just as Arlan prepared to turn and leave the park, he caught sight of something falling from Maya’s shoulder bag as she reached for her phone in the distance.
A small metal object gleamed on the filthy, muddy ground. Maya hadn’t noticed it at all and continued walking away after Satria. Arlan hesitated for a moment before finally striding toward it.
He bent down and picked up the cold object. His heart seemed to stop beating when he saw what now lay in his palm: a silver keychain shaped like a replica of an old analog camera—the birthday gift he had given Maya when she turned twenty.
The metal had faded to a dull finish, with a dent at one corner, but Maya had clearly kept it close for half a decade. Why? If hatred had sealed her heart shut, why was this battered little object still faithfully at her side?
The question spun wildly through Arlan’s mind, kindling a dangerous ember of hope in the depths of despair. He squeezed the silver keychain tightly, letting its sharp corners pierce the skin of his palm until it stung.
“Arlan!” Maya’s call rang out from the distance. It seemed she had only just realized something was missing from her bag and hurriedly turned back.
Her footsteps approached the place where Arlan stood frozen. Her elegant face was now shadowed by intense panic—raw emotion she failed to hide behind her mask of cold professionalism. Maya was out of breath when she arrived directly in front of Arlan.
Her eyes locked immediately onto Arlan’s clenched right hand, which concealed something.
“Give it back,” she pleaded, her lips trembling violently. It was no longer the cold, authoritative voice of a lead architect, but the fragile voice of a woman whose deepest secret had been exposed.
Arlan slowly opened his fingers, revealing the dimly gleaming silver camera replica. “You... still kept it, Maya?”
Maya snatched the keychain with a rough movement. Her face flushed red—whether from embarrassment or burning anger, Arlan couldn’t tell.
“Don’t get the wrong idea! It’s just useless junk I keep forgetting to throw away!” Maya insisted, her defensive voice shaking violently. But the way she clutched the tiny metal object tightly to her chest—as though it were her last lifeline—betrayed every one of her bitter words.
“Maya, I...”
“Don’t say anything else, Arlan!” Maya cut in angrily. Tears began to gather at the corners of her beautiful eyes. “Leave.
“Finish your documentation assignment if that really is your job, but don’t ever speak to me again outside of professional matters. Don’t you dare disrupt what I’ve worked myself half to death to rebuild without you!”
Maya spun around, then hurried toward Satria, who was watching her from a distance with a confused furrow between his brows. Arlan could only stand frozen, following Maya’s retreating back with the ache spreading wildly through his chest.
He knew this suffocating encounter was only the first gust of the great storm poised to ravage everything in Astina City. Inside the pocket of his canvas jacket, Arlan’s phone suddenly vibrated briefly. A short message arrived from an unknown number.