Chapter 54 - A Shadow From Jakarta

The call came in during the afternoon, in a break between rehearsals for the contemporary orchestral project being prepared for the inter-conservatory music festival across Java. The studio was still full of the low chatter of ensemble members packing up their instruments, cases clicking shut one after another, someone laughing over a joke Rimba hadn't caught the start of. Rimba had just set down the violin belonging to one of the ensemble members when his phone buzzed on the mixing desk, displaying a name that hadn't appeared on his screen in years.

Kelana.

He stared at the screen for a fairly long moment before finally answering it, stepping out of the studio toward the quiet corridor behind the conservatory building.

"Lana? What's wrong?" His voice tried to sound normal, though an uneasy feeling had already started spreading through his chest. His younger sister rarely called during school hours unless something important had come up.

On the other end of the line, Kelana's voice sounded a little nervous, far from the cheerful tone she usually showed whenever they chatted by message. "Mas, Papa's media team just contacted my school. They said they want to do a feature on 'a family that stays harmonious despite living apart'—for a political magazine close to his party. They were asking about you too. Said they want to interview you as well, with an angle like 'the son of a politician who became a talented young composer.'" Kelana's words tumbled out faster than usual, betraying how rattled she really was underneath the composed tone she was trying to keep.

Rimba's jaw clenched instantly. He leaned his back against the corridor wall, closing his eyes for a moment, trying to calm a heartbeat that had suddenly started racing.

"They contacted your school?" he asked, his voice sharper than he intended.

"Yeah. I didn't answer anything, Mas. But they've also sent messages to my old number, the one I used back when I still lived with Papa." Kelana paused for a moment, her voice weakening. "Mas... do you think this is really just about the media, or does Papa actually need something?"

Rimba didn't answer right away. He knew exactly how his father operated—nothing was ever truly simple, no request ever came without a hidden interest behind it. Especially this year, an election year, a year when the image of a "whole, successful family" had become the most valuable commodity for anyone chasing a higher seat of power.

"Probably both, honestly," Rimba finally answered, quiet. "Papa hasn't asked how we're doing in years, Lana. It doesn't make sense for him to suddenly care now, unless there's something in it for him."

Silence fell for a moment on the other end of the line, broken only by the sound of Kelana's breathing, trying hard to stay steady.

"I'm scared, Kak," she admitted quietly, her voice making Rimba's chest feel like it was breaking just hearing it—his little sister, whom he'd looked after since childhood, who even after all these years still carried the exact same wound he did, the same flinch at their father's name that neither of them had ever fully outgrown. "I don't want to see Papa again. But if Mas Rimba has to face this alone, I won't be able to rest easy either."

"You don't need to think about this, Lana. Let me handle it." Rimba tried to make his voice sound reassuring, even as a storm had already begun raging inside his own chest, threatening to spill out into something his sister would hear right through the phone. "Just focus on your school. I promise, whatever happens, I'm not going to let Papa waltz back into our lives however he pleases."

After the call ended, Rimba stood still in the empty corridor, staring at his now-dark phone screen. The image of his father's face—the politician's smile that always looked so warm in front of a camera, but cold and calculating behind closed doors—surfaced without warning, stirring up memories he had spent years trying to bury deep beneath his music, his new life, and everything he'd built for himself in this city.

He hadn't yet decided what step to take when his phone buzzed again. This time it wasn't a call, but a short message from a number he didn't recognize, though its opening line was enough to freeze his blood instantly, colder than anything Bayu's questioning at the basketball hoop had ever managed to do.

Rimba, this is Papa. We need to talk. Papa's coming to Jogja this week.

Rimba stared at the screen for a long time, his finger hovering over the reply button without really knowing what to type. For the first time since his parents' divorce years ago, the shadow from Jakarta that he had successfully kept at a distance all this time was now genuinely about to stand in front of him, in the very city that had become the safest place for him to start a new life.

He slid the phone into his pocket without replying to the message, then walked back toward the studio with steps that felt far heavier than before—carrying a weight he wasn't ready to share with anyone yet, Michi included, though he knew, somewhere underneath the dread, that keeping it from her wasn't going to work for very long.

He paused once more before pushing the studio door open, running his thumb absently over the phone still in his pocket, as if he could somehow feel the unanswered message burning through the fabric, an ember he'd have to deal with eventually whether he wanted to or not. Whatever his father wanted this time, Rimba already knew from long experience that it would come dressed as something reasonable, something easy to say yes to—and that was exactly the kind of request that had once cost his mother everything. He wasn't going to let it cost him Kelana's peace of mind too, whatever it took, even if it meant carrying this alone for a while longer before he found the words to tell Michi the truth.