The Midnight Shuttle

Chapter 10 : The Mountain

Morning arrived beneath a sky still heavy with rain clouds.

The police station parking lot glistened with puddles left behind by the night's storm as Aditia stood beside his old angkot, checking the engine the way he always did before a long drive. The familiar routine usually settled his thoughts.

Today...

It didn't.

His father's notebook rested on the passenger seat, opened to the same page he had read over and over since leaving Dirga's office.

When the last guardian appears... follow the mountain.

The words felt different now—less like a mystery, more like directions someone had expected him to follow all along.

The passenger door opened, and Alya climbed inside carrying nothing more than a small backpack and the cloth pouch that never seemed to leave her side. She noticed the notebook immediately.

"You've been reading it again."

Aditia smiled faintly. "I keep hoping the words will mean something different."

"And do they?"

He closed the notebook. "No. They just make more sense every time."

Alya fastened her seatbelt and looked through the windshield. "So... we're really doing this."

Aditia started the engine, the old angkot rumbling softly beneath them. "I don't think we have much of a choice."

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The city slowly disappeared behind them as buildings gave way to open fields and winding roads. Morning mist drifted across the hills in the distance, hiding the mountains behind a veil of pale white.

Alya watched them quietly. "My grandmother always hated those mountains."

Aditia glanced at her. "Did she ever tell you why?"

She shook her head. "No. She only said that some places remember things people are desperate to forget."

The words lingered between them.

Aditia tightened his grip on the steering wheel. His father had once said something remarkably similar.

The further they drove, the fewer cars they passed. The road narrowed. The air grew cooler.

Somewhere ahead, beyond the mist and the endless rows of pine trees, the mountain waited.

The winding road climbed steadily into the highlands.

Gone were the crowded streets and endless rows of concrete buildings. In their place stretched dense pine forests, quiet tea plantations, and valleys veiled beneath a blanket of drifting mist. The higher they drove, the colder the air became.

Alya cracked the window open, letting the scent of wet earth and pine needles drift into the angkot as she spoke quietly about coming here as a child with her grandmother—almost every month, though never for anything resembling a vacation. Aditia glanced at her, a faint smile forming as he asked if those trips had been family outings, but Alya let out a small laugh and shook her head.

"Not exactly."

She kept her gaze on the endless forest rolling past, her expression softening before fading again.

"Grandma never brought me here to have fun. She always called it a lesson."

Aditia raised an eyebrow, curious.

"What kind of lesson?"

Alya paused, watching the mist weave between the trees before answering.

"She'd stop the car in the middle of nowhere. Then we'd walk. For hours. No talking. No music. No questions."

Aditia chuckled softly.

"That doesn't sound much like a vacation."

"It wasn't."

Her voice grew more thoughtful.

"At the time, I thought she was just trying to tire me out."

She shook her head slowly.

"Now I think she wanted me to learn how to listen."

"Listen to what?"

"The mountain."

Silence settled between them. The answer sounded strange, yet somehow neither of them found it ridiculous.

The road curved sharply around the edge of a steep ravine before disappearing into thicker forest. A weathered wooden sign stood beside the road, its faded paint nearly erased by years of rain and moss. Only a few words remained legible.

CIBURUY VILLAGE

Alya's breathing caught. She hadn't expected to see that name again.

Very slowly, she reached into her bag and took out the cloth pouch. On the back of the faded letter, written so lightly she had almost overlooked it, were six handwritten words.

Return to the place where it began.

Aditia slowed the angkot.

Neither of them needed to say it aloud.

They had arrived.

The angkot rolled slowly beneath an old wooden arch that marked the entrance to Ciburuy Village.

Nothing about the place looked unusual.

Children chased one another across the narrow road, their laughter echoing between rows of modest wooden houses. Elderly women sat on front porches sorting vegetables into woven baskets, while a pair of farmers guided water buffalo toward freshly planted rice fields. Smoke curled lazily from kitchen chimneys, carrying the comforting aroma of firewood and freshly cooked rice.

It looked peaceful—too peaceful.

Aditia eased his foot off the accelerator. "I was expecting something different."

"So was I," Alya admitted.

For years, she had imagined this village as a place swallowed by darkness. Instead, it felt alive.

As they drove deeper into the village, people began to notice the old angkot. Some smiled politely. Others simply watched.

An elderly man sweeping leaves paused for a moment before quietly bowing his head toward Alya.

She frowned. "Do I know him?"

"I don't think so," Aditia replied. "But he looked like he knew you."

Alya glanced over her shoulder. The old man was still standing there, watching the angkot disappear down the road.

A few minutes later, they reached a small crossroads at the center of the village.

An enormous banyan tree stood in the middle of the square, its sprawling roots breaking through the stone pavement beneath it.

Around the tree, villagers chatted as though it were any ordinary morning.

Yet something about the place felt different.

The moment Aditia stepped out of the angkot, the air changed. The breeze that had followed them throughout the journey vanished without warning. Even the birds fell silent.

Alya looked up into the massive branches overhead.

Tied among the hanging roots were dozens of faded strips of white cloth, swaying gently despite the still air.

"They weren't here before," she whispered.

Before Aditia could ask what she meant, a voice called from behind them.

"So... I was beginning to wonder when the two of you would finally arrive."

Both of them turned at once.

Standing a few steps away was an elderly man dressed in a plain black pangsi and a faded batik headcloth.

His back was slightly bent with age, yet there was nothing fragile about him. He stood with quiet confidence, one hand resting on a polished wooden walking stick whose surface had been worn smooth by decades of use.

His eyes settled on Alya, and for a long moment he said nothing. Then, slowly, he smiled.

"You have your grandmother's eyes."

Alya froze. "You knew her?"

The old man nodded. "I knew her long before you were born."

He shifted his gaze toward Aditia. "And I knew your father as well."

Aditia's expression changed. "You knew Pak Mulyana?"

"We walked this mountain together more than once."

The old man's smile faded, replaced by something far more solemn. "He always said the day would come when his son arrived here instead."

Silence settled between them. Aditia felt the familiar weight of his father's notebook inside his jacket. It seemed every road he followed eventually led to someone who had once known the man better than he ever realized.

"My name is Abah Jaya," the old man said at last. "Your grandmother used to call me an old fool."

A soft laugh escaped Alya before she could stop it. "That sounds like Grandma."

"It does."

For the first time, genuine warmth touched the old man's face. "But she never stopped coming back."

His smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. "Not because she wanted to. Because she had to."

The wind stirred once again, rustling the faded white cloths tied high among the banyan branches. Abah Jaya looked toward them without turning his head.

"They've become restless."

Aditia followed his gaze. "The cloths?"

The old man nodded. "They're warnings."

"Warnings?"

"For those who know how to read them."

He tightened his grip on the walking stick before looking back at Alya. "If you've truly come to finish what your grandmother started..."

His voice grew quieter. "...then you should know."

He glanced toward the mountain rising beyond the village.

"It has already realized you're here."

Alya stared at Abah Jaya, trying to make sense of his words.

"What do you mean... it knows we're here?"

The old man didn't answer immediately. Instead, he slowly turned and began walking toward the enormous banyan tree at the center of the square.

"Come. You've traveled too far to have this conversation standing in the middle of the road."

Aditia and Alya exchanged a brief glance before following him.

As they approached the tree, the villagers quietly stepped aside. No one stared. No one whispered. Yet every pair of eyes seemed to linger on Alya with a quiet recognition that made her increasingly uneasy.

She leaned closer to Aditia.

"Why are they looking at me like that?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing."

Abah Jaya stopped beneath the sprawling branches. From up close, the faded white cloths looked far older than Alya had first imagined. Some had nearly disintegrated with age, while others were stained by years of rain and sunlight.

The old man rested one hand against the rough bark.

"Do you know why these cloths are here?"

Alya shook her head.

"No."

"Each one was tied here by a guardian," he said calmly. "A promise was made whenever another child survived."

Alya slowly looked upward.

There were dozens of them.

No...

Hundreds.

Her heartbeat quickened.

"Are you saying... there were this many?" Abah Jaya nodded.

"Not all at once. Over many generations." A heavy silence settled beneath the ancient tree.

Then the old man reached into the folds of his jacket and carefully unfolded a small piece of yellowed cloth. Unlike the others, this one had never been tied to the branches. It remained perfectly clean, untouched by wind or rain.

He held it out to Alya.

"This belonged to your grandmother." Alya accepted it with trembling hands.

Embroidered into one corner, almost hidden by time, were two familiar words.

Lastri. Fulfilled.

A tear welled in her eye.

"She came back..." Abah Jaya smiled gently.

"Every single year."

His gaze shifted toward the mountain rising silently beyond the village.

"She always knew one day... someone else would have to make the climb."

Abah Jaya carefully folded the yellowed cloth before placing it back into Alya's hands.

"Keep it. It belongs to you now."

Alya lowered her eyes. The fabric felt impossibly light, yet somehow it carried the weight of every guardian who had come before her.

"What happens next?" she asked quietly.

The old man looked toward the mountain. For a long moment, he didn't answer. Then he rested both hands on his walking stick.

"You climb."

Aditia followed his gaze. The mountain rose beyond the village like a sleeping giant, its summit hidden behind layers of drifting cloud. From where they stood, the forest looked peaceful—too peaceful.

"Is that where it began?" he asked.

Abah Jaya gave a slow nod. "No."

His answer caught them both by surprise.

"It began much deeper than that."

He looked at Alya. "The mountain is only where the truth was buried."

A cool breeze drifted through the village square. The white cloths hanging from the banyan tree rustled together, their soft whisper almost sounding like distant voices.

Abah Jaya reached into his pocket and withdrew an old brass key attached to a faded red cord. Its surface was tarnished with age, but the teeth had been polished smooth from years of careful handling.

He held it out to Aditia.

"Your father left this with me."

Aditia stared at the key. "He... was here?"

"Many times. He knew he wouldn't be the one to finish the journey."

The old man smiled sadly. "He believed you would."

Aditia accepted the key without a word. It felt unexpectedly cold in his hand.

Abah Jaya turned toward the mountain one last time.

"We leave before sunrise. The mountain is willing to reveal its secrets only once each day."

He started walking away before stopping after only a few steps. Without turning back, he spoke one final sentence.

"And tonight... whatever you hear outside your window... don't answer it."

The old man continued down the narrow village path until the mist slowly swallowed his figure.

Neither Aditia nor Alya moved.

Far above them, the mountain disappeared behind another curtain of cloud.