The Midnight Shuttle

Chapter 9 : The Letter

No one spoke.

The interview room remained silent as Alya slowly reached into her bag and took out the small cloth pouch. Time had faded its once-bright golden embroidery, but she still remembered every stitch.

Her grandmother had sewn it herself, and for years Alya had carried it everywhere she went, never once opening it—not because she was afraid of what was inside, but because opening it meant accepting that her grandmother was truly gone. She rested the pouch gently on the table.

For a long moment...

No one moved.

Dirga looked at it with quiet curiosity, while Aditia simply watched Alya, noticing how her hands trembled—not from fear, but from memory.

Finally, Alya untied the faded cord wrapped around the pouch, revealing three things inside: the broken prayer beads, the silver ring's empty wooden box, and a single folded sheet of yellowed paper whose edges had become brittle with age, its ink slightly faded but the handwriting unmistakably clear—Nenek Lastri's.

Alya carefully unfolded the letter.

For a brief moment...

She couldn't bring herself to read the first line.

A tear slipped quietly onto the paper.

She wiped it away before the ink could blur.

"I'm sorry, Grandma," she whispered.

"I'm sorry, Grandma," she whispered.

"I wasn't ready before." She drew a slow breath.

"But I am now."

Across the table, Aditia remained completely still, something about the letter feeling strangely familiar—not because he had seen it before, but because it reminded him of another notebook, another person, another final message left behind for someone they trusted: his father. Somehow, the two stories no longer felt separate.

Alya lowered her eyes.

Then, at last...

She began to read.

My dearest Alya,

If your hands are holding this letter, then it means I could not keep my promise to stay beside you any longer.

The room fell silent once more.

Even the rain outside seemed to fade.

Only Alya's voice remained.

My dearest Alya,

If you're reading this, then you've already kept your first promise to me. You stayed hidden, no matter how frightened you were. I wish I could tell you how proud I am—not because you survived, but because you trusted me when nothing around you made sense.

Alya paused.

Her voice faltered for only a moment before she continued.

You must be wondering why I never told you the truth while I was still alive. I asked myself that same question every year. Again and again, I thought, "Perhaps she's old enough now." Yet every time, I reached the same answer... not yet.

The room remained perfectly still.

Even Dirga, who had spent his career searching for answers, resisted the urge to interrupt.

Children deserve ordinary lives for as long as they can have them. They deserve birthdays, scraped knees, school uniforms, and dreams untouched by fear. More than anything, I wanted that life for you. I wanted you to believe that monsters belonged only in old stories whispered by grandparents on rainy nights.

Alya's grip tightened around the fragile paper.

Memories surfaced one after another.

The birthday cakes her grandmother baked from scratch.

Afternoons spent watering the herb garden beneath the warm sun.

Quiet evenings on the front porch, counting fireflies while listening to stories that had never seemed important before.

Back then...

She had believed those moments were ordinary.

Now she understood they had been precious gifts.

If I failed to protect that ordinary life until you became an adult... then I ask your forgiveness.

Alya stopped reading.

A single tear rolled silently onto the page.

She quickly brushed it away before it could stain the fading ink.

"I never blamed you..."

she whispered.

Her voice was so soft that only she could hear it.

Taking a slow, steady breath, she continued.

There is something every woman in our family inherits. Some families pass down land. Others leave behind wealth or a respected name. Our family inherited something far older... a duty.

Aditia slowly lifted his eyes.

The words settled deep inside him.

They reminded him of another inheritance.

Not money, not property, but a promise his father had carried until his final breath.

Alya turned the page.

The next lines were written more carefully than the rest, as though Nenek Lastri had chosen every word with great care.

Before I tell you what has hunted our family for generations... you must first understand why it came to us in the first place.

Our family was not the first to encounter the darkness. Long before you were born—long before I was born—our ancestors made a choice they believed would save everyone they loved. Instead, that choice became the burden every generation has carried ever since.

Alya's voice remained steady, but the room seemed to grow quieter with every word.

You may hear many stories about Begu Ganjang. Some will call it a demon. Others will say it is nothing more than an old superstition. Most of them are wrong. Fear has a way of changing stories until the truth is almost impossible to recognize.

Dirga leaned forward slightly, not interrupting, simply listening.

Your great-great-grandfather was once a respected village elder. People sought his wisdom whenever crops failed, children disappeared, or illness spread through the valley. He believed every problem had a solution if one was willing to pay the price.

Aditia felt an uneasy chill settle over him.

He had heard words like those before.

Every dangerous story began with someone convinced they could bargain with forces beyond their understanding.

One year, a famine struck the village. The rivers dried, the harvest failed, and people began to starve. Desperate villagers searched everywhere for hope until a stranger arrived from the mountains.

Alya paused for a moment before continuing.

No one knew his name. He carried no belongings, spoke very little, and never accepted food or shelter. Yet somehow, he knew every fear hidden inside the hearts of those who met him.

The rain tapped softly against the window.

No one looked away.

The stranger offered only one promise. He said prosperity could return, sickness would disappear, and the village would flourish again. But every blessing demands an equal price.

Alya swallowed.

The final lines on the page had been written more heavily, as though the pen had pressed deeper into the paper.

Your ancestor believed he could bargain with the darkness...

He never realized that darkness never accepts only one payment.

The stranger never asked for gold. He never asked for land. He asked for something far more dangerous... permission.

Alya slowed as she read the next lines.

Darkness cannot enter a home unless someone opens the door. Sometimes that door is made of wood. More often, it is opened by fear, grief, or desperation. Your ancestor believed he was inviting salvation. Instead, he welcomed something that should never have crossed into this world.

The silence inside the interview room grew heavier.

Aditia thought back to his father.

He remembered the countless times Pak Mulyana had warned him that the greatest danger wasn't evil itself.

It was the people willing to bargain with it.

The harvest returned. The rivers flowed again. The village celebrated what they believed was a miracle. For a while, everyone thought the stranger had kept his promise.

Alya turned the page.

The handwriting became slightly less steady.

Then the children began to disappear.

No one moved.

Not every night. Not every month. Sometimes years passed without a single tragedy. That was how it survived for so long. It taught people to mistake silence for safety. By the time the next child vanished, the previous generation had already convinced themselves the danger was gone.

Dirga's expression hardened.

He had investigated enough cold cases to recognize the pattern.

People stopped looking for connections when too much time passed between them.

My grandmother told me that evil is patient. It does not need to win today if it knows it can wait until tomorrow.

Alya's voice grew quieter.

Generation after generation, our family tried to break the bargain. Some prayed. Some fled. Some devoted their entire lives to protecting the next child. None of them truly escaped. They only delayed what had already been promised.

She paused, drawing a slow breath before reading the final lines on the page.

By the time you were born, Alya... the debt had reached our generation.

Do not make the mistake of believing it hunts because it is hungry. Hunger can be satisfied. This cannot. It hunts because that is its nature, just as fire burns and rivers flow.

Alya continued reading, her voice growing softer with every line.

It does not hate us. Hatred belongs to human hearts. It simply follows the bargain that was made long ago. Generation after generation, it comes to collect what it believes it was promised.

The room fell silent once again.

Outside, the rain had eased into a gentle drizzle.

Many people think courage is enough to defeat darkness. They are wrong. Courage may keep you standing, but wisdom is what keeps you alive. Never chase it. Never challenge it out of pride. If you must face it, do so only to protect someone who cannot protect themselves.

Aditia lowered his gaze.

Those words echoed something his father had once told him.

The dead were never the true enemy.

Pride was.

If one day you meet someone who carries the same burden you do, do not turn them away. They may have been walking toward you long before either of you were born. Some promises are woven together long before the people who carry them ever meet.

Without realizing it, Alya's eyes drifted toward Aditia.

For a brief moment...

Neither of them looked away.

You will know that person when the time comes. They will not fear the unseen, yet they will never seek it. They will understand that every life saved carries a price, and they will keep walking even after the world calls them foolish. When you meet that soul... trust them.

Aditia felt an uneasy tightness in his chest.

It was as though the letter had been written not only for Alya...

But for him as well.

Alya drew a slow breath before reading the final lines on the page.

Because when that day comes... neither of you will be able to survive alone.

Alya lowered the letter, and for several long moments no one spoke as the rain outside finally stopped, leaving only the soft ticking of the clock on the wall to disturb the silence while Dirga slowly leaned back in his chair, letting out a quiet breath.

"So..." He looked at Alya.

"Your grandmother knew all of this." Alya nodded, her voice quiet.

"I think she always did."

She carefully folded the fragile letter along its original creases before placing it back inside the cloth pouch. Every movement was slow and deliberate, as though she feared the paper might crumble if she handled it too roughly.

"It wasn't just a letter." Her fingers rested gently on the pouch.

"It was everything she couldn't tell me while she was alive." Across the table, Aditia remained unusually quiet.

His thoughts drifted to the worn notebook tucked safely inside his jacket, where his father had left behind instructions, while Nenek Lastri had left behind answers—yet neither of them had lived long enough to finish what they had started, a realization that did not go unnoticed by Dirga, who caught the distant look in Aditia's eyes.

"What are you thinking?" Aditia looked down for a moment before answering.

"My father used to say that every promise eventually finds the person meant to keep it." He glanced at the cloth pouch.

"Maybe..."

"...this is one of those promises."

No one argued or laughed, the words felt too true.

Alya slipped the pouch back into her bag and stood.

"So..." She looked at Aditia.

"What do we do now?" Aditia didn't answer immediately.

Instead, he reached into his jacket and took out his father's old notebook, its worn leather cover marked by years of use. He opened it slowly, revealing pages already filled with names—Rosa, Nona, and others whose journeys had finally come to an end—until his eyes stopped on a page he had never fully understood before. There was only a single sentence written in his father's careful handwriting: When the last guardian appears... follow the mountain. Aditia felt his heartbeat quicken as he slowly looked up at Alya. "I think..." He closed the notebook. "...our next destination has been waiting for us all along."