The alley suddenly felt much colder.
Damar stood frozen in the middle of the narrow passage. Pak Raka's words still echoed in his mind, repeating like a sound that refused to fade.
Your body is lying on the street right now.
Some people are trying to bring you back.
Damar stared at his own hands.
They were still holding a warm cup of coffee. Thin steam rose from the surface of the black liquid, drifting slowly into the cold night air.
He moved his fingers slightly.
Warm.
Real.
Very real.
If this was just a dream, why did every detail feel so vivid? Why was the aroma of the coffee so strong? Why could he still feel the night wind slipping gently between the old walls of the alley?
He slowly turned toward the stall.
Pak Raka was still standing behind the wooden counter, just like before.
Not panicked. Not hurried. Not like someone who had just told another person that his body was lying unconscious in the street.
He simply stood there, calm—like on any other night.
"Sir…" Damar's voice came out softer than he expected.
Pak Raka lifted his head.
"Yes."
"Am I… dead?"
Pak Raka didn't answer immediately.
He picked up the metal kettle in front of him and poured more coffee into Damar's cup. The dark liquid flowed slowly, forming small ripples on the surface.
The movement felt almost like a ritual.
Calm.
Measured.
As if time moved slower in this place.
"Not yet," Pak Raka finally said.
Damar swallowed.
"Not yet?"
Pak Raka gave a small nod.
"But you are very close to the boundary."
"The boundary?"
Pak Raka pointed toward the alley.
"This place."
Damar followed his finger.
A narrow corridor with damp, aging walls. A small lamp hung above the stall, casting a dim yellow light—just enough to make shadows drift slowly across the ground.
It felt like a forgotten part of the city.
But now Damar realized something stranger.
This place might not belong to the city at all.
"This is one of the places between two worlds," Pak Raka said.
Damar felt his chest tighten slightly.
"Two worlds?"
Pak Raka nodded.
"The world of the living… and the world of the dead."
Damar looked down at his coffee again.
Several seconds passed in silence.
He tried to understand everything.
His body on the street.
People trying to save him.
And himself standing here… drinking coffee.
If someone had told him a story like this a week ago, he would have dismissed it as too strange—even for a novel.
But now—
he was inside the story.
"What will happen to me?" Damar finally asked.
Pak Raka looked at him for a long moment before answering.
"Everything depends on one thing."
"What?"
"Whether you want to return."
The question made Damar fall silent.
He stared at the coffee in his hand.
It was a simple question.
But the answer was not as simple as he thought.
The past few months of his life had felt like a dead-end corridor.
Unfinished writing.
An editor who stopped calling.
Publishers rejecting his manuscript without much explanation.
And a growing feeling that his life had no direction.
Sometimes he even asked himself whether writing still had any meaning.
Whether all his efforts mattered.
But when the question was truly asked—
Do you want to return?
The answer came without hesitation.
"Yes," Damar said quietly.
Pak Raka nodded.
"Good."
"Why?"
"Because some people who come here are not sure of that answer."
Damar looked at him.
"What do you mean?"
Pak Raka poured more coffee into the kettle.
"Some people are too tired to live."
The night wind moved softly through the alley.
The small lamp swayed slightly.
Damar took a sip of his coffee.
Warm.
It tasted the same as before—bitter, yet strangely comforting.
He looked up.
"Sir."
"Yes?"
"If my body is really out there on the street…"
Pak Raka nodded.
"Can I see it?"
The question slipped out before he could stop it.
Damar himself didn't know why he wanted to see it.
Maybe to make sure everything was real.
Maybe because he didn't believe it.
Pak Raka looked at him for a few seconds.
Then he said,
"You can."
Damar's heart began to beat faster.
"How?"
Pak Raka pointed toward the end of the alley.
"Walk out."
Damar turned.
The end of the alley looked like a doorway to another world.
Streetlights.
Shadows of vehicles.
The sounds of the city returning.
"And after that?" Damar asked.
Pak Raka spoke softly,
"Your world will be visible."
Damar stood up slowly.
His body felt light.
Too light.
As if it no longer had weight.
He walked toward the end of the alley.
One step.
Two steps.
Ten steps.
The alley felt shorter than before.
The streetlights grew brighter.
The sounds of vehicles became clearer.
Motorbikes.
Horns.
People talking.
But everything sounded distant.
Like it was coming from underwater.
When Damar finally reached the end of the alley—
he stopped.
Blue and red lights flashed across the road.
An ambulance.
Several people stood on the sidewalk.
Others gathered in the middle of the street.
Paramedics knelt on the asphalt.
And in the middle of the crowd—
someone lay motionless.
Damar's heart pounded.
He hadn't seen the face yet.
But something inside him already knew.
He swallowed.
His steps slowed.
But he kept moving closer.
Because deep down—
he knew one thing.
The person lying there…
might be himself.
Damar moved closer to the crowd.
The blue and red lights reflected off the slightly wet asphalt, stretching shadows across the road.
Voices overlapped with the sounds of medical equipment.
"Quick, check his pulse again!"
"Blood pressure dropping!"
"Get the defibrillator!"
Damar stopped a few meters away.
He could see the paramedics clearly now.
Two of them knelt on the street.
One held an oxygen mask.
The other pressed on someone's chest with rapid rhythm.
Damar felt his throat go dry.
He knew.
He knew who it was.
But he still wasn't ready to see it.
One step.
Two steps.
Then finally—
he saw the face.
And the world stopped.
It was his own face.
Damar.
His eyes were closed.
His skin pale.
A thin line of blood ran from his temple onto the asphalt.
"Still got a pulse!" one paramedic shouted.
Another prepared the defibrillator.
"Ready!"
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
The monitor sounded unstable.
Damar stood frozen.
He stared at his own body, unable to move.
Fear.
Confusion.
Disbelief.
"This… can't be…" he whispered.
But everything was too clear to deny.
It was really him.
Same shoes.
Same jacket.
Even the watch still on his wrist.
"We're losing him!" one paramedic shouted.
The monitor flatlined.
Biiiiii—
Damar felt his own heart stop.
"Charge!"
"Clear!"
His body jerked slightly from the shock.
No response.
"Again!"
Charge.
"Clear!"
Another jolt.
Seconds passed.
Then—
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
"He's back!" someone shouted.
"Get him into the ambulance!"
Damar stood there, staring.
Relief came—but it felt strange.
As if it wasn't his body.
As if he were just watching someone else who happened to look like him.
They lifted his body onto a stretcher.
His head tilted.
An oxygen mask covered his face.
"Good thing the ambulance passed by in time," someone said.
"He almost got hit."
"Yeah, he looked disoriented before he fell."
Damar frowned.
Disoriented?
He tried to remember.
The blinding ambulance lights.
The loud siren.
Then—
nothing.
As if the world had suddenly shifted into that mysterious alley and coffee stall.
He stepped back.
His head felt light.
His thoughts foggy.
Was this really happening?
Was he really standing outside his own body?
Then suddenly—
Pak Raka's voice came from behind him.
Calm as ever.
"Now you understand."
(…continued…)
The ambulance siren screamed through the night.
Damar gasped awake, his chest rising sharply.
His eyes flew open to the white ceiling inside the ambulance.
"He's back! Stable pulse!" a paramedic said in relief.
Damar tried to move.
Pain pressed into his skull.
"Don't move yet," the paramedic said gently. "Breathe slowly."
Damar inhaled.
Cold air filled his lungs.
But that wasn't what he noticed most.
It was—
the smell of coffee.
Faint.
But unmistakable.
Warm.
As if freshly brewed.
He frowned, turning his head slightly.
There was no stall.
No kettle.
No Pak Raka.
Only medical equipment.
But the scent lingered.
As if it had followed him back.
Hours later.
Damar woke again in a hospital room.
Dim lights.
A steady heart monitor beside him.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
He looked at his watch.
Still stopped.
23:17.
Exactly the same as before.
"So it wasn't a dream…" he murmured.
A nurse entered.
"You're lucky," she said. "You almost died."
Damar gave a faint smile.
"Yes… I know."
The nurse paused, sniffing the air.
"That's strange."
"What?"
"Did your family bring coffee?"
Damar froze.
"Coffee?"
"There's a coffee smell in this room," she said. "But patients here aren't allowed to have any."
She looked around, confused.
Then shrugged and left.
The door closed.
Silence returned.
Damar stared at the ceiling.
The alley.
The stall.
Pak Raka.
The mysterious man.
We will meet again.
His chest felt cold.
Was it real?
Or just something his mind created near death?
Then—
a soft sound.
Like a wooden chair being moved.
Damar opened his eyes.
The room was empty.
But the smell of coffee suddenly grew stronger.
Slowly—
he turned toward the window.
And outside—
in the hospital courtyard—
something made his breath catch.
A narrow alley.
One that had never been there before.
A dim yellow lamp hung at its entrance.
And deep inside—
a small coffee stall.
A figure stood behind the counter.
The silhouette of an old man.
Damar swallowed.
The figure lifted a cup of coffee.
As if greeting him from afar.
And even from that distance—
Damar knew exactly who it was.
Pak Raka.
The lamp flickered once.
And then—
everything disappeared.
The courtyard returned to normal.
As if nothing had ever been there.
But the aroma of coffee remained.
And deep in his mind—
Damar understood one thing.
That night might be over.
But his journey with the coffee stall between two worlds—
had only just begun.