Until We Meet Again In Another Life

Trace at the Station

Bogor Station in the morning is a symphony of organized chaos. Dyah stood under the old iron roof extending above the platform, her hand gripping the strap of her backpack as the Commuter Line train stopped with a long, ear-piercing hiss of brakes.

The sliding doors opened, and passengers flowed out like water breaking a dam. Neat but starting to wrinkle office uniforms, heavy student backpacks, and mothers carrying cloth shopping bags; all moved in a dense, unceasing flow. The humid morning air was soon filled with a mixture of the smell of engine oil, the aroma of coffee from a wooden cart by the trackside, and the steam of human sweat.

Dyah zipped up her hoodie jacket up to her chin. The cool Bogor air was actually more comfortable than the Jakarta heat they had just left two hours ago, but she felt slightly shivering—not because of the temperature, but because of a sudden feeling of strangeness attacking her. Beside her, Reynold was busy with his phone. His forehead deeply wrinkled, his eyes squinted, staring at the screen reflecting the morning sunlight.

"From here to IPB Dramaga still has to take an angkot again," murmured Reynold without lifting his gaze. "But we must make sure first that this is the right place, Dy. Don't end up wandering."

Dyah only gave a small nod. Her mind was not on the angkot route. Her fingers inside her jacket pocket were feeling the edge of the old map she still kept. She could feel the texture of that old paper through the thin fabric, as if the blue circle around Dramaga and the writing "Ardnes" there emitted a heat she could feel directly on her skin.

They began to walk along the platform toward the main station area. Overlapping sounds filled the space: train schedule announcements from buzzing, broken speakers, shouts of newspaper vendors, and haggling over parking ticket prices at the exit. Above all, the rumble of another train just entering the station created vibrations felt down to the soles of Dyah's feet.

Dyah stared at the crowd, trying to insert the figure of Sudiro among them. A week ago. Small black suitcase. Was he standing on the same tiles I'm stepping on now?

"Who do we ask first?" Reynold broke her reverie. His footsteps slowed near the baggage storage lockers.

Dyah swept her gaze around. There were uniformed station officers busy behind glass counters, indifferent vendors at small kiosks, and a group of baseofficerss sitting on their motorcycles while smoking. However, her eyes were drawn to an old man sitting on a wooden bench near the north exit. In front of him stood an old wooden tripod with an antique-looking analog camera, alongside a small board reading: “Memory Photo – 3x4, ready in 2 minutes.”

"Him," said Dyah shortly, while pointing toward the photographer.

The man was wearing a long-sleeved shirt whose color had faded to a brownish-gray. His black peci was slightly tilted to the right. His veined hand held a morning newspaper, but his slitted and sharp eyes observed every person passing with the interest of a professional observer.

Dyah stepped closer. Nervousness suddenly tickled her stomach, making her feel slightly nauseous. "Excuse me, Sir."

The man lowered his newspaper slowly. His eyes, surrounded by deep wrinkles, looked at Dyah, then shifted to Reynold behind her. "Want a photo? Fast, good, cheap. For mementos or administrative requirements?"

"No, Sir. We... we are looking for someone," Dyah's voice trembled slightly.

The man's expression changed. The corners of his eyes lifted a little, showing deeper interest. "Police?"

"No, Sir. Friend," Dyah interjected quickly. "He disappeared a week ago. We have strong reasons that he passed through here."

The old man nodded slowly, as if this was not the first time he had heard such a story. He shifted his sitting position, then pointed to the space on the wooden bench beside him. "Sit first."

Dyah and Reynold sat. The bench felt hard and cold. From this position, Dyah could clearly see the entire front area of the station—the row of waiting angkots, people running to catch schedules, and a pair of young people sitting sharing earphones. The world seemed to be moving too fast, not caring about one life whose trail might be being severed.

"Explain," said the photographer shortly while folding his newspaper.

Dyah took out her phon and, opened the photo gallery. She showed a portrait of Sudiro taken six months ago on campus. There, Sudiro smiled broadly, his eyes shining, with a background of blooming flamboyant trees.

The man took Dyah's phone with a slightly trembling hand. There was a black ink stain around his fingernails. He looked at the photo for quite a while, holding the phone as if it were a fragile artifact.

"Young. His smile is good," he murmured. He lifted his gaze, stared straight at Dyah. "He passed through here."

Dyah's heart beat fast, as if just hit by something hard. "When, Sir?"

"Last week. Wednesday, maybe. Or Thursday. I'm a bit forgetful of the day, but I remember the person," the man returned the phone. "He carried a small suitcase. Black. Cabin size."

Reynold leaned forward, both hands resting on his knees. "You're sure, Sir? Thousands of people pass through here every day."

"I've been here every day from six in the morning until six in the evening for fifteen years, Son," answered the man in a flat voice, without the slightest doubt. "I see faces. That's my job—reading a face before I take its picture. His face..." He paused for a moment, his eyes gazing toward the train tracks. "...had light and shadow. Like most young peopl,e carrying small suitcases here. But in his eyes, there was something heavier. Like someone carrying something invisible."

Dyah swallowed. Her throat felt blocked. "What did he do here, Sir?"

"Bought a ticket." The man pointed with his chin toward the counter across. "He queued there. Didn't talk much, just looked around occasionally, like someone waiting for someone. But until he got his ticket, no one came to meet him."

"Then?" asked Reynold again.

"He got his ticket, then sat on that bench." His finger pointed to an empty bench near a large potted plant with dusty leaves. "Sat for about half an hour. Didn't play with his phone, didn't read a book. Just sat quietly, watching trains coming and going."

Dyah imagined Sudiro there. Sitting alone amidst the station's commotion. Why didn't you tell me, Diro? Why here?

"Did he ever talk to anyone?" Reynold kept pursuing information.

The photographer shook his head. "No. After half an hour, he stood up, took his suitcase, and walked to the platform." He pointed toward the end of the station. "Platform three. Train to Dramaga."

Blood seemed to freeze in Dyah's veins. "So he really went to Dramaga."

"Yes. But..." the man hesitated, his eyes squinting as if trying to forcibly pull details from his fading memory.

The blaring horn of an angkot cut his sentence. Dyah was impatient. "But what, Sir?"

The old man looked at Dyah, and for the first time, Dyah saw pity in those blurred eyes. "But he bought a round-trip ticket. I saw it myself when he transacted at the counter. But this week, I never saw him return through here."