Chapter 5 Echoes in the Empty Stall

The fourth night at Kinanti's Coffee Stall. The sky outside looked like a failed gray cake batter, reluctant to spill its contents. The night wind blew as softly as an ex's hesitant plea to get back together-doubtful and a little annoying wuuush... like it wasn't really trying. From the outside, this rickety coffee stall still faithfully displayed its ordinary facade (plus the bonus of the banyan tree whose cough was getting worse kho-kho... ngiiiik... like its lungs were about to come out). But for Damar, this place had evolved into a kind of impromptu portal to another realm.

Or, more accurately, a free transit terminal for lost souls who were confused about finding their way home (or maybe didn't have a home?).

Tonight, Damar arrived with the spirit of '45 (even though the clock already showed almost midnight). He even managed to stop by the minimarket, not to buy offerings, but a package of cheese-filled pull-apart bread. His brain, which was starting to get used to the strangeness, thought practically. "Who knows if ghosts also need a midnight snack. At least if they're hungry, they won't bother me asking for free coffee," Damar muttered while arranging the pull-apart bread in the glass display case whose door often clacked like his grandpa's dentures.

The antique wall clock whose hands moved at the speed of a retired snail still faithfully showed 11:48 PM tik... tok.... There were still a few minutes before the sacred hour struck. Time that Damar used to clean the crooked tables full of coffee stains (maybe the tears of lovelorn customers?), and-this was a first in his work history-to pray. Not because he suddenly became pious, but more because his survival instinct was screaming for protection.

The dented aluminum spoon from the first faceless customer's night was now Damar's tight grip. His bent head looked like it had been used to contemplate the mysteries of the afterlife (or just look for fried snack crumbs?). Kling...

"If all this is just a nightmare because I fell asleep watching a melodramatic soap opera last night, please don't anyone wake me up yet," he whispered softly, his eyes glancing warily towards the corner bench whose atmosphere was always colder than a broken air conditioner. Then with a resigned sigh huft... oh well, just go through with it, he sat down in the chair behind the cash register, ready to take orders from customers from other dimensions.

00:01.

Zzzzz... The night wind seemed to be on vacation. The leaves on the banyan tree were still and quiet. There were no strange sounds from outside, except maybe the sound of crickets confiding in their friends. And the most surprising thing: no customers! Neither those with faces nor those whose faces were like blank templates.

Damar sighed deeply, a mix of disappointment (why so quiet?) and relief (finally can rest!). "Unusual, no one's hanging out. Does the supernatural realm also have a curfew?"

He stood up, intending to turn off the old radio in the corner that usually turned on by itself with a spooky dangdut playlist that gave him disco chills. But when he turned around...

Tap.

That soft sound successfully froze Damar in place. Something had just landed gracefully (or maybe fallen?) from under the rickety cash register.

An envelope. Its color was faded red, like cheap lipstick that hadn't been used in a long time, or maybe... old dried blood that had been washed away by tears of regret. Jeez, so dramatic.

Damar bent down with slow movements, suspicion level god. He carefully picked up the envelope, as if the object could suddenly turn into a giant cockroach. Syuuut... With trembling fingers, he tore open the creased edge of the envelope.

Inside was a letter. The paper was as thin as a used tissue. The ink was shaky, the writing small and a bit childish, like the writing of an elementary school kid who had just learned cursive.

"Hi. My name is Seno. I wasn't born. But every night, I like to stop by Om's stall. It smells nice. I always sit on the bench in the far corner. Sorry if it's sometimes cold. That's me. Don't be scared, Om. I just want to know... if I was born, would my life be happy?"

Damar reread the letter. His brain was loading slowly, trying to digest the existential confession of a potential wandering spirit.

Silence. Ssssh... The air inside the stall felt like it was holding its breath.

Damar's eyes automatically moved towards the corner bench mentioned in the letter. Still completely empty. The wooden chair looked ordinary, no aura of an invisible child contemplating his fate.

But...

On the small table beside the corner bench, sat a cup of black coffee. Still emitting thin wisps of steam pssssh..., warm like an ex's hug when they needed money.

Damar swallowed, his saliva feeling like salak seeds stuck in his throat. His steps slowly approached the table, like approaching a time bomb ready to explode at any moment. Kriet... kriet...

He sat down in the chair across from the coffee cup. Staring at the still steaming coffee, staring at the empty chair in front of him, as if on a date with the night wind. Then in a soft voice, he placed the faded red letter on the table.

"Hi, Seno..." he said softly, his voice like a shy demon's whisper. "If you were born... maybe you would have become a coffee addict kid like Om Damar here. Maybe you would have cried the first time you watched Titanic. Or... you would have learned to ride a bicycle, fallen and scraped your knees, then gotten back up like a zombie."

Suddenly, the air inside the stall felt a bit warmer, like someone had turned on the gas stove for no reason. The old radio in the corner that usually just collected dust suddenly turned on by itself, a soft instrumental melody drifted out, like a lullaby played at a doll's funeral. Ngiing... niiiing...

Damar opened and closed his eyes, feeling the strange warmth and the sleep-inducing music.

Suddenly, a fleeting small shadow darted across the dimly lit corner of the stall. Syuuut! Its shape wasn't clear, like the shadow of a cat chasing a hallucinated mouse, but... there was a movement of air.

And from the dark kitchen-eeng... iiing...-the sound of a baby crying could be heard. Not a hysterical cry that would wake the neighbors, but a soft cry that was enough to make Damar's hair stand on end like super strong hairspray. Hiks... hiks...

Damar stood up, his heart pounding like club music. His hands trembled as he pulled aside the battered plastic curtain that separated the kitchen from the front room. Srek... srek...

The kitchen was dark and smelled of stale coffee. Except for one strange object: on the coffee-stained table, lay a small wooden rocking horse toy. Its paint was faded here and there, but it still showed signs of being played with. And on the bottom, the name "Seno" was carved in small, uneven letters.

Damar picked it up. The wood felt warm, like it had just been hugged by a small ghost.

The baby's crying stopped instantly. Ssst...

Then... the cold wind came in again, stronger than before wuuush... like someone had opened a giant refrigerator door. It hit Damar's face with a chilling touch that gave him goosebumps. He looked up at the kitchen ceiling that was starting to crack like the skin of a kaffir lime. There was something... up there?

Instantly, the ceiling creaked softly kriet... krauk..., like someone was tap-dancing in the attic.

Damar went back to the corner table. Sat down in the chair across from the warm coffee.

"Seno... maybe you never got to experience being born. But tonight, in this rundown coffee stall, you... seem to be online."

And for the first time, Damar felt tears streaming down his cheeks. Not because he was afraid of being chased by ghosts, but because he suddenly felt... lonely. A strange loneliness, like waiting for a text from a crush that never came.

Half an hour later, the wall clock showed 00:47 tik... tok....

Damar was getting ready to close the stall. He had washed a few dirty glasses (although he was sure they would be dirty again tomorrow), and wiped the crooked tables (which seemed destined to be crooked). When he glanced at the corner bench, he found a small piece of cloth under the bench.

Faded white cloth. Like... a baby diaper. But clean, without any stains at all. It just smelled softly, like old baby powder that had been tucked away in a closet for a long time. Hmm... the scent of a past that never existed.

Damar held the cloth carefully. In the corner, there was a small heart-shaped stitch. So sweet... but why so creepy?

"For Mother."

Damar fell silent. Staring blankly at the cloth. His feelings were mixed like a fruit cocktail without syrup.

"Who is your mother, Seno?" he whispered softly towards the window that showed the pitch-black night sky. Then suddenly-

Tok... tok... tok.

Soft but heavy knocks sounded from the stall's glass window.

A woman stood outside. Her silhouette was faintly lit by the moonlight that shyly peeked out from behind the clouds. She wore a long nightgown whose color had faded like an ex's memories. Her hair was disheveled like it had been through a storm. Her eyes were listless, like chronic sleep deprivation.

Damar hesitantly opened the window krieeek.... The night wind immediately rushed in, slightly messing up his hair.

The woman only said in a soft voice like a ghostly whisper with a cold:

"I just wanted to say... thank you. For making him feel alive, even if just for a moment."

Her smile was thin, like the Mona Lisa's but sadder.

And before Damar had a chance to ask further, the woman was gone. Syuuut... Vanished as if swallowed by the earth (or maybe swallowed by the fog?).

02:17.

Damar sat alone in the dimly lit stall. Staring at the empty chair in the corner, the rocking horse toy on the table, and the white cloth in his hand.

He laughed softly, a laugh that sounded a bit insane. Hihihi...

"I haven't even gotten paid yet. But every night feels like shooting an indie horror soap opera whose episodes never end."

He stood up, put the toy and the cloth in an old coffee cardboard box. Then he wrote a label with a red marker:

"For those who can't be seen, but are there. Hope you're at peace over there (or wherever 'there' is)."

He turned off the lights klip... klap... jleb!, then locked the stall door kriet.... And as he turned the last padlock, without him realizing...

Behind the darkness of the large banyan tree whose cough was getting worse kho-kho... ngiiiik... like it was about to vomit leaves, a pair of small, deep black eyes peered out from behind the old roots.

A soft laugh, a cold giggle that made his hair stand on end again. Hihihi...

Then a soft whisper, its voice like the sigh of the night wind:

"Tomorrow night... I'll play again, okay...?"

The next day, in Damar's narrow and smelly-sock filled boarding room, he found another letter. But not inside the "memories" cardboard box from the stall. The letter was stuck to his bedroom wall whose paint was peeling here and there, written with dusty white chalk like after writing physics formulas:

"Damar... you don't know who the real owner of this stall is, do you?"