The Midnight Shuttle

Every night after midnight, Aditia stopped counting his passengers. Some paid their fare. Some never did. Some climbed aboard with muddy shoes after walking through the rain, while others left footprints that vanished before morning. His father had warned him long ago never to ask why. "Just drive." "Never refuse anyone who needs a ride." For three years, Aditia had lived by those words. Even on the nights he wished he hadn't. "Still working this late, Miss Rosa?" he asked as the familiar woman climbed into the front seat of his aging angkot. She smiled tiredly before setting her worn canvas bag across her lap. "Another overtime shift." "You'll wear yourself out." "And let my kids eat air instead?" Her laugh was quiet, but genuine. Aditia couldn't help laughing with her. "Fair enough." The old angkot pulled away from the factory district, its engine humming steadily through streets that had already begun to empty. Most drivers preferred heading home before midnight, but Aditia never did. Night passengers needed rides too—especially factory workers finishing another exhausting shift. Rosa always chose the front seat whenever he was driving. Not because it was more comfortable, but because she trusted him. "You know," she said after several minutes, "I only wait for your angkot." "You've told me that before." "I'm serious." She kept her eyes on the road ahead, watching rows of streetlights slide across the windshield. "The others make me uncomfortable. They stare. They keep asking if I have a husband, and when I tell them I'm a widow..." She forced a faint smile. "They start smiling too much." Aditia's hands tightened slightly around the steering wheel. "You should book an ojek." "I can't afford it." Silence settled between them as the city drifted past outside. Street after street disappeared behind them, and with every passing kilometer the roads grew quieter. "My mother worries about you," Aditia finally said. Rosa blinked in surprise. "What?" "She says women shouldn't travel alone this late." A soft chuckle escaped Rosa's lips. "Tell your mother thank you." "I'll be careful." "You'd better." He glanced at her for only a second before returning his attention to the road. "I'm not driving tomorrow." The smile slowly disappeared from Rosa's face. "What do you mean?" "I have something to take care of." She lowered her eyes. "So..." "If I don't show up..." "Please don't wait." "I don't like the other drivers." "I know." "They joke too much." "I know." "They drink." "I know." "They scare me." His voice softened. "Then promise me something." "What?" "If any driver ever makes you feel unsafe..." He paused. "Get out." "Immediately." For a moment Rosa simply looked at him. Then she smiled again. "You worry too much, Dit." "I'd rather worry now than regret it later." She laughed quietly. Neither of them knew those would become the last ordinary words they would ever share. The next afternoon, Aditia stayed home. His younger sister, Dita, noticed immediately. "Whoa." She folded her arms dramatically, pretending to inspect him from head to toe. "The legendary night driver actually came home before sunrise." "I'm taking one night off." "Are you sick?" "I wish." Dita narrowed her eyes. "You've been driving too much lately. You even missed Mom's birthday dinner." Aditia scratched the back of his neck, unable to deny it. "I know." "You always say that." Before he could answer, their mother emerged from the kitchen carrying two steaming cups of tea. She placed them gently on the table before looking at Dita with a patient smile. "Stop scolding your brother." "I'm not scolding him." Dita lifted one cup. "I'm educating him." "He'll die early at this rate." Aditia laughed. "You two make a great team." "We learned from Dad." The laughter disappeared almost as quickly as it had come. For a brief moment, no one spoke. On the living room wall hung an old framed photograph of their father, smiling with the same warmth they all remembered. Beside it hung a weathered key—the key to the angkot. It was the only inheritance he had left behind. No land. No savings. No house. Just one aging minibus... And a promise Aditia had never been able to abandon. Dita finally broke the silence. "Sometimes..." "I still expect him to walk through that door." Aditia looked at the photograph for a long moment before answering. "So do I." That evening, for the first time in weeks, Aditia allowed himself to rest. No steering wheel. No empty roads. No passengers. Only silence. He slept more deeply than he had in a long time. Until— Knock. Knock. Knock. His eyes opened instantly. The room was dark. The digital clock beside his bed glowed a pale blue. 3:00 A.M. Exactly. Again. Knock. Knock. Knock. Not louder. Not faster. Always three knocks. Never more. Never less. A cold breeze slipped beneath the bedroom door. Then... A voice. "...Help..." A woman's voice. Broken. Weak. As though the words were struggling through deep water. Dita stirred in the next room. Their mother remained asleep. Only Aditia had heard it. Slowly, he reached beneath his pillow and wrapped his fingers around the small keris his father had entrusted to him on the day he died. Its blade felt strangely warm. Outside, the knocking continued. Knock. Knock. Knock. "...Help..." Aditia closed his eyes and quietly whispered the Sundanese mantra his father had taught him years ago. "Diteuteup ti hareup sieup... Mikaeunteup mikasieup... Mangka eunteup mangka sieup... Ka awaking..." The air grew heavier with every word. The temperature dropped so quickly that a thin mist formed across the windows, and even the walls seemed to breathe with slow, uneasy sighs. Without another word, Aditia walked toward the front door and rested one hand against the old wood. The crying on the other side continued, weak and desperate, like someone who had been wandering for far too long. "...Go home," he whispered. The voice answered with a sob. "Please..." "...Help..." Aditia closed his eyes once more. Then he slammed his palm against the door. "NYINGKAH SIA!" The entire house shook. Silence followed. Not the ordinary silence of midnight... But the kind that seemed to swallow every sound in the world. A few seconds later, the freezing air began to fade. The pressure inside the house lifted, and the knocking never came again. Only then did Aditia release the breath he had been holding. He already knew what it meant. Tomorrow night... Whoever had knocked on his door... Would become his passenger. The following evening, Aditia returned to the same familiar route. The factory gates had just opened, and workers streamed into the streets in small groups, laughing and chatting as they hurried home after another exhausting shift. His eyes drifted instinctively toward the place where Rosa usually waited. Empty. A small smile appeared on his face. Good. Maybe she had listened. Maybe she'd found another ride before it got too late. He started the engine, and the old angkot rumbled gently into the night. One passenger. Then two. Then five. They climbed aboard one after another before getting off at different intersections, until only one seat remained empty. His favorite seat. Rosa's seat. For another fifteen minutes he drove through streets that grew quieter with every turn. Most shops had already closed, leaving only the steady hum of the engine and the distant barking of stray dogs to keep him company. Then... Someone raised a hand by the roadside. Aditia slowed the angkot. The woman climbed aboard without saying a word and walked straight to the front seat. Like she always did. "...Miss Rosa?" No answer. She quietly closed the folding door before sitting beside him. She wore the same factory uniform, and her worn canvas bag rested neatly across her lap. But something felt... Wrong. She was unusually quiet. "You worked overtime again?" Aditia asked with a faint smile. Nothing. She simply stared through the windshield. The silence stretched between them. Aditia tried again. "Everything alright?" Still nothing. Only then did he notice it. Her clothes looked damp. Not from rain. As though she had been lying on wet ground. Mud stained the hem of her uniform, while her hands rested motionless on top of the canvas bag, unnaturally pale beneath the dashboard lights. "You okay, Miss?" "...Drive." Her voice barely escaped her lips. Soft. Empty. Almost lifeless. Aditia frowned. Something wasn't right. He had known Rosa for years. She was never this quiet. Never. The old angkot continued through the sleeping city. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Neither of them spoke. With every kilometer they traveled, the air inside the cabin grew colder. Aditia instinctively glanced at the dashboard. The air conditioner wasn't even on. A chill crept slowly down his spine. "...Dit." It was the first time Rosa had spoken since boarding. "Yes?" "...Stop here." He looked through the windshield. His grip tightened around the steering wheel. A cemetery. Its rusted iron gate stood half-open beneath the pale glow of a flickering streetlamp. There were no houses nearby. No shops. No passing vehicles. Only endless rows of silent graves disappearing into darkness. "You live another fifteen minutes from here," Aditia said carefully. "I know." "Then why..." "...Please. Stop." Without another question, he pulled the angkot onto the roadside. The engine continued idling softly, but neither of them moved. The silence between them felt impossibly heavy. Finally... Rosa spoke. "You were right." Aditia turned toward her. "About what?" "...Your angkot really is full every night." His heartbeat skipped. Slowly... Very slowly... He lifted his eyes toward the rear-view mirror. Empty. Only empty seats. A quiet breath escaped him. Then Rosa slowly raised one trembling finger. "Not there." She pointed toward the seat directly behind him. Every muscle in Aditia's body stiffened. He turned. His blood froze. The seat wasn't empty. An old man sat there in silence, his skin gray and his clothes soaked with mud. He stared out the window without blinking. Beside him, a little girl hugged a broken doll against her chest, while across the aisle a woman gently cradled something invisible in her arms, humming a lullaby no one else could hear. There were seven passengers. None of them had boarded. None of them had spoken. None of them... Were alive. Aditia slowly lowered his head. "...You saw them." Rosa nodded. Tears rolled quietly down her cheeks. "I wasn't supposed to." "I only found out..." "...after I died." The words struck Aditia harder than any scream ever could. "What... happened?" Rosa's lips trembled as she struggled to answer. "I listened to you." A faint, weary smile appeared on her face. "The next night... you weren't driving. I waited for a long time, but you never came. So... I got into another angkot." She stopped, drawing a shaky breath before continuing. "It wasn't yours." Aditia couldn't bring himself to say a word. "The driver smiled too much. I wanted to get off, but the doors wouldn't open. The road changed. We weren't heading toward my neighborhood anymore." She slowly lifted one trembling hand and pointed toward the cemetery beyond the windshield. "We stopped... here." Her voice broke. "They dragged me out. There were five of them... the driver and four drunk men." Aditia's fingers tightened around the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. "I screamed. No one came. I begged. No one listened." Only the quiet hum of the engine filled the silence between them. "They kept saying... 'You're only a widow. Nobody's waiting for you.'" Tears streamed endlessly down Rosa's face. "I wasn't wearing anything wrong. I wasn't looking for trouble. I only wanted to go home." She lowered her head, her voice barely more than a whisper. "I just wanted to see my children again." Aditia felt his vision blur. His chest tightened until even breathing became difficult. "They..." Rosa's shoulders trembled violently. "...they took everything from me." A long silence settled between them. Then, almost too softly to hear, she whispered, "They killed me." "They buried me beneath those trees." "I'm... I'm sorry." Rosa gently shook her head. "No." "It wasn't your fault." "It was theirs." She turned toward the cemetery one last time, her eyes filled with longing. "But my children... they're still waiting for me. I promised I'd come home." Outside, a cold wind swept across the empty road, while behind them the silent passengers remained perfectly still, watching without a word. They looked less frightening now, as though each of them carried a sorrow of their own, patiently waiting for someone willing to listen. For several long moments, neither of them spoke. The old angkot remained parked beside the cemetery gate, its engine idling softly—the only sound on a road that seemed abandoned by the living. Aditia wiped his eyes. His father had warned him about nights like this. "Never pity the dead more than the living." "Help them..." "...but don't lose yourself with them." Back then, Aditia had never understood those words. Tonight... He finally did. He looked at Rosa. "What do you want me to do?" Rosa slowly turned toward him. For the first time since she had stepped into the angkot... She smiled. A tired smile. A mother's smile. "My children still think I'm working overtime. They'll keep waiting. They'll keep hoping I'll come home." Her voice cracked. "Please..." "Tell them I didn't leave them." Aditia lowered his head. "I promise." "And..." She hesitated. "Please find me." "They buried me where no mother should ever be buried." Aditia met her eyes. "I will." "I swear." The moment those words left Aditia's lips, the air inside the angkot began to change. The freezing cold slowly faded, the crushing silence lifted, and even the passengers behind him seemed to relax. Rosa quietly wiped away her tears. "Thank you." Without a word, Aditia reached into the small compartment above the windshield. His fingers closed around something wrapped in faded black cloth—the keris. Its blade was no longer than his forearm, old and simple, yet the instant it left its sheath, the temperature inside the angkot dropped once again. Every passenger slowly turned their heads toward him at the same time, watching and waiting. Aditia rested the keris across both palms, exactly as his father had taught him. "Miss Rosa... it's time." She nodded and slowly closed her eyes. Aditia whispered the ancient prayer—not loudly, not dramatically, but almost like a son saying goodbye to someone he had known all his life. A warm breeze brushed across Rosa's face as, behind her, a faint light slowly appeared—soft at first, then growing brighter. She turned toward it and saw someone standing there: a woman, smiling gently, her arms stretched open in welcome. "...Mom..." Rosa whispered, tears streaming freely down her cheeks as she slowly rose to her feet. She turned toward Aditia one final time. "My children..." "I know," Aditia answered softly. "I'll take care of them." She smiled again, this time without any sadness left in it. "Thank you... for coming." "And thank you..." Aditia replied with a faint smile, "...for trusting my angkot." Rosa laughed through her tears. "Looks like... I finally made it home." The light embraced her, and little by little her figure became transparent until she disappeared completely, leaving only the gentle fragrance of jasmine behind. Aditia stood quietly beneath a tree with Chief Inspector Dirga, his childhood friend, beside him. "So..." Dirga let out a weary sigh. "You found her before we did." Aditia nodded. "I couldn't save her." "No." Dirga looked toward the freshly uncovered grave. "But you can still give her justice." Before sunset, all five suspects had been arrested—the driver and the four drunken men. One by one, they confessed, each leading the police to the burial site. The case shocked the entire province, and reporters called it one of the most brutal crimes of the year. Only two people knew the whole truth: Aditia and Rosa. Dirga slipped both hands into his pockets. "There were five of them?" "Yes." "One driver." "Four passengers." Dirga closed his eyes. "I'll make sure they never hurt anyone again." Aditia nodded. "Thank you." Dirga shook his head. "No... thank your father. If he hadn't raised you, that woman would never have been found." Silence settled between them. After a long while, Dirga finally asked, "Did she leave peacefully?" Aditia smiled faintly. "She finally went home." Dirga lowered his head. After the funeral, Aditia returned to his old angkot. The driver's seat still carried the faint fragrance of jasmine. He rested both hands on the steering wheel, closed his eyes, and let out a long, weary breath. "I'm tired, Dad..." Only silence answered him. The engine rumbled to life, and the old angkot slowly rolled away from the cemetery. For a few quiet moments, only the steady hum of the engine filled the cabin. Then the folding door slid open. No one stood outside, yet footsteps echoed softly across the metal floor as passengers began to enter—one after another. A child, an old man, a woman cradling an invisible baby. Aditia never looked back. He didn't need to. Some passengers paid with cash. Others paid with their final regret. The folding door closed by itself, and silence settled inside the cabin. Finally, a quiet voice broke it. "...Can you take us home?" Aditia smiled as he shifted the gear. "That's why I'm here." The old angkot disappeared into the darkness. Tomorrow, someone else would be waiting—another unfinished story, another lost soul searching for the road home. THE MIDNIGHT SHUTTLE Some people take the last angkot to go home. Others take it because they never could.