The rain fell harder.
The sound of water dripping from the edge of the stall's tin roof echoed like a slow, repeating rhythm. The narrow alley grew quiet again, lit only by the dim yellow lamp hanging above the wooden table where Pak Raka usually brewed coffee.
Damar was still sitting in his chair.
He had not fully recovered from what he had just heard.
The man in front of him—his shirt soaked in blood—had just said something that made the world feel unreal.
I died… didn't I?
The sentence kept looping in Damar's mind.
He looked at the man again.
Now, as he tried to observe more carefully, something felt strange about the way the man sat. His body looked exhausted, but not like someone who was severely injured. There was indeed blood on his clothes, yet he didn't seem to feel the pain that should come with such a wound.
Instead, what showed was confusion.
And fear.
The man stared at the cup of coffee in his hand as if he were holding something unfamiliar.
"This is… strange," he said softly.
He lifted the cup slightly, watching the thin steam rise from the surface.
"It smells like… home."
Damar frowned.
Home?
Pak Raka stood behind the wooden table, his hands slowly rearranging a few small spoons that were already neatly aligned.
"Sometimes coffee can remind someone of the place they miss the most," Pak Raka said calmly.
The man did not respond immediately.
He took another sip.
Damar watched his face.
And something very subtle happened.
The stiff expression of fear slowly softened into something gentler.
Like someone remembering a warm past.
"My father…" the man suddenly said.
Damar turned.
The man was still staring at the coffee in his hand.
"My father always made coffee like this."
He gave a faint smile.
A fragile smile.
"Every morning before he left for work."
Pak Raka nodded slowly.
"Do you miss him?"
The man did not answer right away.
He looked at the rain falling at the end of the alley.
A few seconds passed.
"He died ten years ago."
His voice was softer now.
"Heart attack."
He exhaled.
"I wasn't even home at the time."
Silence fell again.
Damar didn't know what to say.
He still didn't fully understand what was happening in this stall.
But Pak Raka seemed completely calm.
Like someone who had seen this kind of thing many times before.
"Sometimes life gives us regret," Pak Raka said.
"But sometimes it also gives us the chance to understand that regret."
The man looked at him.
"A chance?"
Pak Raka pointed at the cup of coffee.
"Start from there."
The man looked at the coffee again.
Damar noticed his hands.
They were still trembling slightly, but now not out of fear.
More like someone trying to understand something very big.
"My name is Arif," he finally said.
Damar nodded slowly.
"I'm Damar."
Arif looked at him for a moment.
"Are you… dead too?"
The question came so suddenly that Damar almost choked on air.
"No!" he replied quickly.
Arif looked slightly relieved.
"Oh."
He nodded.
"Good."
He turned to Pak Raka again.
"So… I'm the only one…?"
Pak Raka did not answer immediately.
He poured hot water into a small kettle.
White steam rose into the night air.
"Not always," he said.
Arif frowned.
"What do you mean?"
Pak Raka shrugged lightly.
"This stall sometimes receives guests who are still alive."
He glanced at Damar.
"And sometimes guests who are on a journey."
"A journey?"
Pak Raka looked at Arif gently.
"Between life… and death."
Damar felt the hair on his neck stand.
The sentence sounded simple.
But in that quiet alley, with the rain still falling and a bloodied man sitting in front of them—
it felt very real.
Arif looked at his hands again.
The blood on his shirt seemed to be drying.
"What will happen to me?" he asked.
The question hung in the air.
Pak Raka picked up another cup.
He poured coffee again.
The aroma grew stronger.
"That's not a question I can answer," he said.
Arif grew more anxious.
"Why?"
Pak Raka placed the new cup on the table.
"Because the answer doesn't belong to me."
He pointed at Arif.
"It belongs to you."
Damar looked at both of them.
He felt like he was witnessing something important, yet he couldn't fully understand it.
Arif lowered his head.
His hands gripped the cup tighter.
"If I go back…"
He paused.
"Will everything be the same?"
Pak Raka smiled faintly.
"Nothing is ever truly the same after someone nearly loses their life."
The rain continued.
The lamp above the stall swayed slightly in the wind.
Arif closed his eyes.
As if trying to remember something far away.
"That accident…"
He spoke slowly.
"I remember the truck's headlights."
His breathing grew heavier.
"Then the sound of impact."
He opened his eyes again.
"After that…"
He looked around the alley.
"…I was walking here."
Damar swallowed.
"Does that mean… your body is still there?" he asked.
Arif did not answer.
He looked at Pak Raka.
And Pak Raka said only one sentence.
"Sometimes a body is still fighting… while the soul pauses for a moment to think."
Silence fell again.
Damar felt something heavy in his chest.
If that was true…
then this man might still have a chance.
But they might not have much time.
Pak Raka picked up the kettle again.
He poured the last coffee into Arif's cup.
The aroma was stronger now.
Deeper.
"This is your first cup in this stall," Pak Raka said.
Arif looked at him.
"Is there something special about it?"
Pak Raka nodded.
"Yes."
"This is the cup that helps someone remember… why they must return."
Arif fell silent.
The rain kept falling.
The small lamp creaked softly.
Damar could feel the tension in the air.
Arif finally lifted the cup again.
His hand paused mid-air.
He looked at Pak Raka.
"If I drink this…"
"Yes?"
"Will I come back to life?"
Pak Raka smiled faintly.
"Not necessarily."
Arif almost laughed in despair.
"That's not very reassuring."
Pak Raka shrugged.
"This stall is not a place for certainty."
He looked at Arif seriously.
"It's only a place for people to decide… whether their life is still worth fighting for."
Silence fell again.
Arif stared at the coffee.
The steam rose slowly into the night.
Damar could see the doubt in his eyes.
Fear.
Regret.
Hope.
All mixed into one.
And at that moment, Damar began to understand something.
This stall was not a place to save people.
This stall was a place where people had to save themselves.
Arif lifted the cup higher.
His lips almost touched it.
But before he could drink—
from the end of the alley, footsteps suddenly echoed.
Heavy steps.
Slow.
And somehow—
they made the air around the stall feel much colder.
Pak Raka stopped moving.
Damar turned toward the alley.
Arif turned as well.
And from the darkness…
someone began to approach.
Someone whose face could not be clearly seen.
But one thing Damar felt immediately—
that person…
was not here to drink coffee.
The footsteps grew clearer.
They were not hurried.
Nor were they the steps of someone lost.
They were heavy. Measured. As if the owner knew exactly where he was going.
From the dark end of the alley, a shadow stretched across the rain-soaked concrete floor.
Damar felt something strange in the air around him.
Cold.
Not the cold of rain.
But a cold that made his chest feel tight.
Like when someone suddenly enters a room filled with bad memories.
Arif felt it too.
His hand, which held the cup of coffee, froze mid-air.
His eyes stared toward the end of the alley.
"Who is that…?" he whispered.
But Pak Raka did not answer.
He simply stood behind the wooden table with the same expression as before—calm, as if this was nothing new to him.
The small lamp above the stall swayed again.
Its light fell upon the figure drawing closer.
Slowly.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Finally, the figure emerged from the shadow.
Damar swallowed.
The man was tall. Very tall.
His body was thin, yet he stood upright like a pole.
He wore a long black coat that looked too heavy for a warm night like this.
Rainwater dripped from the edge of the coat.
But what made Damar uncomfortable the most was the man's face.
Not because it was terrifying.
Not because of wounds.
But because the face was… too calm.
Like someone who no longer had emotions.
His eyes looked straight at the stall.
And directly at Arif.
Arif turned pale.
Very pale.
"No…" he muttered.
His hands began to tremble again.
"No… not now…"
Damar turned to him.
"You know him?"
Arif did not answer.
His eyes remained fixed on the man who now stood just a few steps away from the stall.
The rain fell between them.
The man stopped right in front of the table.
He did not sit.
Nor did he look at Damar.
He only stared at Arif.
For a long time.
Then he finally spoke.
"Arif Prasetyo."
His voice was deep.
Cold.
Like a voice coming from somewhere far away.
Arif closed his eyes for a moment.
"Yes…"
"It's time."
The sentence fell into the air like a stone.
Damar felt the hair on his neck rise.
"Time for what?" he asked reflexively.
The man finally turned to him.
That gaze made Damar's heart feel like it stopped for a moment.
The man's eyes were strange.
Dark.
Too dark.
As if no light was reflected in them.
"You're not supposed to be here," he said flatly.
Damar almost responded, but Pak Raka raised his hand slightly.
A small signal.
Silence.
The man turned back to Arif.
"You had an accident at twelve-oh-seven."
Arif lowered his head.
"Your vehicle collided with a cement truck on Sudirman Street."
Damar held his breath.
The man continued.
"The ambulance arrived seven minutes later."
He paused.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"Your body is currently in the hospital."
Silence fell.
The rain grew heavier.
Arif gripped his coffee cup tighter.
"Am I… still alive?"
The man did not answer immediately.
Instead, he said—
"Your heartbeat is weakening."
Arif swallowed.
"How long do I have?"
The man tilted his head slightly.
Like someone checking an invisible clock.
"Three minutes."
Damar almost stood up from his chair.
"Three minutes?!"
Arif looked like someone who had just been sentenced.
"Three minutes…" he murmured.
His hands trembled.
His eyes stared at the coffee in his cup.
But the man stepped closer.
"Come."
Just one word.
But it sounded like a command.
Arif lifted his head.
"Now?"
"Yes."
"But…"
Arif looked at his coffee.
"I'm not finished yet."
The man did not react.
"You don't need to finish it."
Arif shook his head.
"I want to."
Damar looked at Pak Raka.
But Pak Raka remained silent.
His hands rested on the wooden table.
As if he was waiting for something.
The man in the black coat finally turned to Pak Raka.
Their eyes met.
And for the first time since he arrived—
the man seemed slightly disturbed.
"This place again."
His tone changed slightly.
Like someone who wasn't pleased to find the same thing happening repeatedly.
Pak Raka smiled faintly.
"Good evening."
The man did not return the smile.
"You're interfering with the process."
Pak Raka shrugged.
"Sometimes people need time to think."
The man pointed at Arif.
"He already had time."
Pak Raka looked at Arif.
"Not yet."
The man narrowed his eyes.
"Time keeps moving."
Pak Raka nodded.
"That's true."
He pointed at the coffee cup.
"But he hasn't drunk that yet."
Silence.
The man in black stared at the cup.
For a long moment.
As if that small object bothered him.
Arif now held the cup with both hands.
"If I drink this…" he said.
He looked at the man.
"Can I still choose?"
The man did not answer.
Pak Raka did.
"Always."
Arif took a deep breath.
The man in black stepped closer.
"You have two minutes left."
Arif looked at the coffee again.
The steam still rose slowly.
The aroma was warm.
Calming.
He remembered something.
His father's face.
Morning.
A small kitchen.
The smell of coffee.
He closed his eyes.
His hand lifted the cup.
But before he could drink—
the man in black spoke again.
"If you refuse now…"
His voice grew colder.
"…you won't have a second chance."
Arif stopped.
The cup hovered in the air.
Damar could see the conflict on his face.
Fear.
Regret.
Hope.
Pak Raka looked at him calmly.
Not pushing.
Not stopping him.
Just waiting.
The small lamp above them swayed again.
The night wind blew stronger.
And Arif finally opened his eyes.
He looked at Pak Raka.
"If I go back…"
His voice was almost a whisper.
"…will my life change?"
Pak Raka smiled faintly.
"If it doesn't change, then you didn't truly return."
Arif looked at the coffee one last time.
Then—
he drank it.
One long sip.
And in the next second—
the man in black suddenly moved forward.
Fast.
Too fast for a normal human.
His hand reached toward Arif.
But before he could touch him—
Pak Raka placed his hand on the table.
And for the first time that night—
the atmosphere in the stall changed.
The air trembled.
The small lamp above them glowed brighter.
The man in black stopped abruptly.
His eyes narrowed.
"Don't," he said softly.
But Pak Raka only said one sentence.
"He has chosen."
And at that moment—
the coffee cup in Arif's hand fell to the floor.
Shattered.
While Arif's body—
disappeared.
As if pulled back to somewhere else.
Silence fell over the stall.
The rain continued.
The man in black stood still for a few seconds.
Then he looked at Pak Raka.
This time, his gaze was no longer neutral.
There was something else in it.
Something darker.
"You sent him back."
Pak Raka nodded.
"Yes."
The man exhaled slowly.
"This isn't over."
Pak Raka did not look worried.
"It never is."
The man looked at Damar.
For the first time, truly looking at him.
"And you…"
Damar tensed.
"…should not have seen all this."
Then the man turned.
And walked back into the darkness of the alley.
His footsteps slowly faded.
The rain became the only sound again.
Damar stared at the place where Arif had been sitting.
Empty.
Only broken pieces of the cup on the floor.
He turned to Pak Raka.
"Sir…"
His voice was hoarse.
"What just happened?"
Pak Raka picked up a small broom.
He began sweeping the broken pieces calmly.
"A man almost died."
He paused.
"And he decided to live."
Damar stared at him wide-eyed.
"But that man… who was he?"
Pak Raka gathered the last pieces.
He stood again.
Looking toward the dark end of the alley.
Then said softly—
"The collector."
Damar felt his heart beat faster.
"The collector… from where?"
Pak Raka smiled faintly.
But this time the smile felt different.
More mysterious.
Deeper.
"From the same place," he said.
"The place where all humans will go someday."
The lamp above the stall swayed again.
The rain began to subside.
Damar sat in silence.
His mind filled with questions.
And for the first time since he found this stall—
he began to ask something bigger.
Who exactly was Pak Raka?
And why did a man like that…
not seem afraid of the collector of death?
Pak Raka lit the small stove again.
Water began to boil once more.
He turned to Damar.
"Looks like you need coffee too."