Chapter 4 – An Old Man Named Pak Raka
Damar had never really paid attention to the old man before.
For the past few nights, he had simply come, sat on the same wooden chair, ordered the same coffee, and left without much thought. The small stall itself was already strange enough to occupy his mind—appearing in an alley he had never noticed before, always open late at night, and always feeling empty despite being in the middle of the city.
But the old man who ran the stall…
somehow was always there.
Damar began to notice him that night.
The rain had just stopped. The streets were still wet, reflecting the city lights like shards of glass shimmering on the asphalt. The air felt colder than usual, carrying the scent of damp earth and exhaust fumes.
He walked without a clear destination.
A few hours earlier, he had just received an email from his publisher.
It was short.
Too short.
"We're sorry, but we are unable to publish your manuscript at this time."
There was no further explanation.
No suggestions.
No hope.
Damar had read sentences like that far too many times—so many that he could almost recite them by heart. And yet, for some reason, tonight felt heavier.
Maybe because this was the last publisher he had hoped for.
Maybe because he was beginning to suspect that everything he had done for years—writing, sending manuscripts, waiting for responses—had never truly meant anything.
His steps led him back to the same alley.
The narrow passage was almost invisible from the main road. If someone wasn't deliberately looking for it, they would most likely never notice it.
But Damar knew where it was now.
And somehow, he always found his way back.
The small lamp hanging above the stall was still lit.
Its yellow glow was dim, yet warm.
The coffee stall was still there.
Damar paused at the entrance of the alley for a moment.
He still wasn't sure how he felt about this place.
But one thing he knew—
it calmed his mind.
He stepped inside.
His footsteps echoed softly on the concrete floor.
The small stall looked exactly the same as before.
An old wooden table.
A few simple chairs.
A metal kettle on a small stove.
And behind the counter…
the same old man.
Pak Raka.
He was pouring coffee when Damar walked in.
As if he had already known someone would come.
Without looking toward the door, the man said,
"Good evening."
His voice was calm.
Warm.
Not too loud.
Yet clear enough to fill the small space.
Damar sat in his usual seat.
"Good evening."
Pak Raka placed a cup of coffee in front of him.
"As usual."
Damar raised an eyebrow.
"I haven't even ordered yet."
Pak Raka gave a small smile.
"I know."
Damar studied the old man longer than usual.
His age was hard to guess.
His hair was completely white, yet his face was not deeply wrinkled. There was something in his eyes that made him seem far older than he looked.
His gaze was sharp.
But also calm.
Like someone who had seen far too much of the world.
Damar picked up the cup.
The aroma immediately filled his senses.
Bitter.
Warm.
Strangely enough, the coffee here always felt more… alive than anywhere else.
He took a sip.
It tasted the same as the previous nights.
"Sir," Damar finally said.
Pak Raka looked at him.
"Yes?"
"How long has this place been here?"
Pak Raka didn't answer immediately.
He was wiping another cup with a small cloth.
His movements were slow and precise.
As if nothing in the world needed to be done in a hurry.
"It's been quite a while," he said at last.
"How long?"
Pak Raka thought for a moment.
"Hard to count."
Damar chuckled.
"Why?"
Pak Raka placed the cup back on the shelf.
Then said,
"Because time doesn't always move the same way in a place like this."
Damar frowned.
"A place like this?"
Pak Raka didn't explain.
Instead, he turned on the small stove again.
A soft blue flame flickered to life.
The kettle began to hum gently.
Damar watched him.
There was something strange about the old man.
Not just his calm demeanor.
But the way he moved.
Every motion felt… exact.
Nothing wasted.
Like someone who had done the same thing for a very long time.
"Pak Raka," Damar said.
The old man lifted his head slightly.
"Yes."
"Do you live around here?"
Pak Raka smiled faintly.
"You could say that."
"You could say?"
He looked at Damar with an unreadable expression.
"My place isn't far from here."
"Is it in this alley?"
Pak Raka didn't answer.
Instead, he asked,
"Why are you curious?"
Damar shrugged.
"I just think it's strange."
"How so?"
"I've come here several times…"
He glanced around the small stall.
"…but I've never seen any other customers."
Pak Raka nodded slowly.
"That's not too strange."
"It isn't?"
"Not everyone can find this place."
Damar frowned.
"What do you mean?"
Pak Raka poured himself a cup of coffee.
Then sat behind the counter.
For the first time, he looked like someone who wanted to rest.
"This alley is passed by many people," he said.
"But not everyone sees this stall."
Damar chuckled.
"So it's… hidden?"
Pak Raka didn't laugh.
He simply sipped his coffee.
"If you want to call it that."
Damar leaned forward slightly.
"Then why can I see it?"
Pak Raka looked at him for a few seconds.
His gaze felt deep.
Then he said softly,
"Because you need it."
The answer made Damar fall silent.
"I need… a coffee stall?"
Pak Raka nodded slightly.
"A place to pause."
Damar looked at his coffee again.
A few seconds passed in silence.
Only the quiet sound of boiling water filled the space.
"Do many people come here?" Damar asked.
"Sometimes."
"What kind of people?"
Pak Raka smiled faintly.
"People who are lost."
For some reason, those words felt directed straight at him.
Damar took another sip.
Warm.
Calm.
Like a night that didn't want to end too quickly.
"Sir," he said again.
"Yes."
"Have you ever felt… like life moves too fast?"
Pak Raka didn't answer immediately.
He stared at the small flame beneath the kettle.
Then said softly,
"Sometimes life doesn't move too fast."
"Then what?"
"Sometimes people move too slowly to keep up with it."
Damar sighed.
"You sound like a philosopher."
Pak Raka chuckled.
"Just a stall keeper."
But somehow—
Damar felt that wasn't true.
Damar kept staring at him.
The small lamp above the stall swayed gently, its light shifting across Pak Raka's face.
For a brief moment—
Damar felt like he saw something strange.
The old man's shadow on the wall…
didn't move exactly the same as his body.
He blinked.
When he looked again—
everything seemed normal.
Damar frowned.
"Sir…"
"Yes?"
"Have you ever felt that this place… is different?"
Pak Raka smiled.
"Everyone who comes here eventually says the same thing."
Damar exhaled.
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
Damar glanced toward the dark alley outside.
The night air felt colder now.
"Pak Raka," he said softly.
"Yes."
"What kind of place is this, really?"
Pak Raka didn't answer immediately.
He looked at Damar more deeply than before.
Then he said quietly—
"A place where some people are given a second chance."
Damar froze.
"A second chance?"
Pak Raka nodded.
"But not everyone realizes it."
Damar stared at him.
His mind was now full of questions.
But before he could say anything—
a sudden gust of wind rushed in from the end of the alley.
The hanging lamp swayed.
The flame on the stove flickered.
Pak Raka turned toward the alley, his expression suddenly serious.
Damar followed his gaze.
"Sir… what is it?"
Pak Raka didn't answer.
He only said softly—
"It seems we'll have a guest tonight."
Damar stared into the darkness at the end of the alley.
He didn't see anyone yet.
But somehow—
he felt something unusual approaching.
The wind carried a colder chill than before.
Not strong, but enough to make the small lamp above the stall sway slowly. Its yellow light trembled on the concrete floor, casting shadows that moved like something alive.
Damar kept his eyes fixed on the alley.
Still empty.
Only darkness and damp old walls.
Yet Pak Raka continued to look as if he saw something Damar could not.
"Sir…?" Damar whispered.
No response.
Pak Raka stood a little straighter behind the counter.
For the first time since Damar had known him, his expression was completely serious.
A few seconds passed.
Then—
footsteps.
Tok.
Tok.
Tok.
Slow.
Heavy.
Not the steps of someone in a hurry.
But of someone who knew exactly where he was going.
A chill ran down Damar's spine.
From the darkness, a figure finally emerged.
A man.
Probably in his forties. He wore a gray suit, slightly wrinkled—like someone who had just gone through a very long day.
His hair was messy.
His eyes looked exhausted.
He stopped a few steps from the stall.
He glanced around the alley, confused.
Then his gaze landed on the small coffee stall.
And like most people who saw it for the first time—
he looked surprised.
"Oh," he said softly.
"I didn't know there was a stall here."
Pak Raka smiled.
"Good evening."
The man nodded.
"Good evening."
He walked closer.
His steps were hesitant.
But the warm aroma of coffee seemed to pull him in.
"I almost didn't see this alley from the main road," he said.
"The light's pretty dim."
Pak Raka nodded.
"Sometimes people only notice it when they need it."
The man chuckled.
"Then maybe I do need it."
He sat beside Damar.
Damar studied his face.
There was something strange about it.
Not something visible—
more like a feeling.
Like someone who had just lost something very important.
Pak Raka placed a cup of coffee in front of him.
"I didn't order," the man said.
"That's alright," Pak Raka replied calmly.
"This is usually what people need."
The man stared at the cup for a moment.
Then gave a small smile.
"Alright."
He took a sip.
A few seconds later, his expression shifted.
"This is good."
"Thank you."
Pak Raka nodded.
Damar watched in silence.
He was beginning to realize something.
Pak Raka always knew what to give.
As if he already knew the people who came here.
The man turned to Damar.
"Sorry," he said.
"I didn't realize someone else was here."
"It's okay," Damar replied.
The man nodded.
Then sighed deeply.
"This place… feels strange."
Damar gave a small laugh.
"I thought the same thing the first time I came."
The man glanced behind them.
"It's like… the outside world stopped."
Damar nodded.
"Yeah."
The man took another sip.
Then said,
"My day was terrible."
Damar felt that the man wanted to talk.
"How bad?" he asked.
The man let out a humorless laugh.
"I just lost my job."
Damar nodded slowly.
"I'm sorry."
The man shrugged.
"The company went bankrupt."
He stared into his cup.
"Twenty years working there."
"And in one day… it's over."
Damar didn't know what to say.
Pak Raka remained silent behind the counter.
But he was listening.
"I went home earlier," the man continued.
"And I didn't know how to tell my family."
He looked at the table.
"So I just walked."
"No destination."
Damar glanced at Pak Raka.
He didn't look surprised.
As if he had heard stories like this many times.
"It's funny," the man said.
"I don't even know how I ended up in this alley."
Pak Raka spoke softly,
"Sometimes the road finds people."
The man smiled faintly.
"Maybe."
A few seconds passed.
Then he asked,
"Is this place always open at night?"
Pak Raka nodded.
"Only at night."
"Why?"
"Because some conversations only happen in the dark."
The man chuckled.
"I like that."
Damar studied him longer.
Something felt off.
Not because the man was strange—
but because he seemed too desperate.
Like he was standing on the edge of something.
The man looked at Pak Raka.
"Sir."
"Yes."
"Have you ever felt like life suddenly loses its direction?"
Pak Raka looked at him calmly.
"Many times."
The man laughed softly.
"Good. At least I'm not alone."
"No one is ever truly alone," Pak Raka said.
The man stared into his cup again.
"Sometimes it feels that way."
Silence fell again.
The lamp swayed gently.
Damar glanced downward.
And suddenly—
his heart skipped.
The man's shoes…
were wet.
Not just wet.
There was mud on them.
And on the concrete floor…
the footprints he left behind looked like water mixed with soil.
Damar frowned.
He glanced toward the alley.
Yes, it had just rained.
But the alley wasn't that muddy.
Those footprints looked too… heavy.
Like someone who had walked through something much thicker.
Pak Raka noticed too.
Their eyes met briefly.
For a split second—
Damar felt Pak Raka knew something.
But he said nothing.
The man took another sip.
Then asked softly,
"Sir… may I ask something strange?"
"Of course."
The man hesitated.
"If someone loses everything…"
He paused.
"…is life still worth continuing?"
The air in the stall suddenly felt colder.
Pak Raka didn't answer immediately.
Then he said,
"Sometimes a person doesn't lose everything."
The man looked up.
"Really?"
"Sometimes they only lose what they thought was everything."
The man fell silent.
A few seconds passed.
Then, almost whispering—
"I almost jumped."
Damar froze.
"Jumped?"
The man nodded.
"From the bridge at the end of the road."
Silence.
Heavy.
"But you didn't," Pak Raka said calmly.
"No."
The man exhaled.
"For some reason, I walked away."
He looked around the stall.
"And then I found this place."
Pak Raka nodded.
"Sometimes one step away from the edge… is enough to save a life."
The man stared at his cup.
His eyes glistened.
"This coffee… tastes strange."
"How?" Damar asked.
The man smiled faintly.
"Like… it reminds me of something."
"What?" Pak Raka asked softly.
The man thought.
Then whispered—
"Home."
Silence returned.
The lamp swayed.
The night wind continued.
Finally, the man stood up.
He placed some money on the table.
"Thank you."
Pak Raka shook his head.
"No need."
The man frowned.
"Really?"
"Tonight's coffee is already paid."
"By who?"
Pak Raka smiled slightly.
"By you."
The man didn't understand.
But he didn't ask.
He nodded, then walked out into the darkness.
Damar watched him disappear.
A few seconds later—
he was gone.
Damar turned to Pak Raka.
"Sir…"
"Yes?"
"That man…"
He hesitated.
"…will he be okay?"
Pak Raka looked toward the empty alley.
Then said calmly—
"Yes."
Damar exhaled in relief.
But before he could speak—
Pak Raka added,
"Because tonight… he didn't die."
Damar froze.
"Didn't die?"
Pak Raka looked at him.
The lamp swayed.
And in the same calm tone—
he said,
"Some people come here… just before they make the final decision of their lives."
Silence filled the stall.
And for the first time—
Damar began to understand.
This place…
was not just a coffee stall.
It was something else.
Something standing quietly—
between life and death.