Morning came more slowly for Damar.
Not because the sun rose late, but because his mind was still left behind in the previous night.
He woke with a strange feeling—the feeling of someone who had just returned from a long journey, even though his body had never truly left his small apartment.
The sky outside the window was already bright. Sunlight fell across the slightly worn wooden floor, casting long lines that made the room feel larger than usual.
But the first thing that came to Damar's mind was not the morning light.
It was the aroma of coffee.
The same aroma he had smelled for two consecutive nights.
He sat on the edge of his bed, rubbing his face slowly.
"This is getting strange," he muttered.
He tried to recall everything more clearly.
The small coffee stall.
Pak Raka.
The woman who had just left her home.
The old man with a cane.
And the one thing that unsettled him the most—
the figure that looked like himself.
Damar stood and walked toward the small kitchen in the corner of his apartment. He poured water into the electric kettle and turned it on.
Mornings were usually the time he hated most.
Morning meant reality returned.
Bills to be paid.
Manuscripts left unfinished.
An editor who had long stopped checking on him.
And the feeling that his life was going nowhere.
But this morning was different.
He wasn't thinking about any of that.
He was thinking about one thing.
The coffee stall that only appeared after midnight.
The kettle clicked.
Damar poured the hot water into an instant coffee cup.
He stirred it slowly.
Then took a sip.
Flat.
He immediately noticed the difference.
Pak Raka's coffee felt warmer, deeper—like it contained something that couldn't be explained by beans alone.
Damar chuckled to himself.
"Now you're comparing a mysterious coffee to instant coffee."
He brought the cup to his desk.
His laptop was still open from last night.
The document he had written was still on the screen.
In a forgotten corner of the city, there was a small coffee stall that only opened after midnight.
Damar read the sentence again.
Then added another line.
And the people who found it were usually those who were lost in life.
His hands paused above the keyboard.
He realized something.
He wasn't writing a story anymore.
He was writing what had actually happened.
And that made him uneasy.
A writer was supposed to create stories, not follow them.
But these past two nights, it felt like his life was the one following a story.
Damar closed his laptop.
He walked back to the window.
From his apartment floor—not very high—he could see a small busy street.
People walked quickly.
Motorcycles passed nonstop.
Street vendors pushed their carts.
Everyone seemed to know where they were going.
Damar felt the opposite.
He felt like someone standing at a crossroads with no signposts.
And even stranger—
he began to feel that the coffee stall might be the only place that made sense to him right now.
The day passed as usual, but something inside him had changed.
He tried to work.
Tried to write.
But his thoughts kept returning to one thing.
The alley.
The alley he had never walked through before.
He had lived in this city for almost eight years.
Yet he had never seen that place.
Never smelled coffee from there.
Never noticed that narrow passage.
As if it had never existed until two nights ago.
Around three in the afternoon, curiosity finally got the better of him.
He opened the map on his phone.
He tried to trace the route he had taken.
The main road.
A small bridge.
Then the turn toward the alley.
But when he zoomed in—
there was no alley.
Damar frowned.
He zoomed in again.
Still nothing.
Just tightly packed buildings and narrow unnamed streets.
"That's impossible," he muttered.
He even searched for "coffee stall" in the area.
A few cafés appeared.
But none where he remembered.
Damar leaned back in his chair.
That strange feeling returned.
How could something so clear in his memory not exist on a map?
He stared at his phone for a long moment.
Then let out a small laugh.
"Maybe it's just not listed."
But something bothered him.
It wasn't just the stall.
The alley itself felt like something that shouldn't exist.
And the more he thought about it, the more he realized something even stranger—
it was on a street he passed often.
And yet, he had never seen it before.
As if it had only appeared the night he walked there.
Night came again.
This time, Damar didn't wait long.
By eleven, he was already out of his apartment.
The air felt colder than usual.
The sky was covered with thin clouds reflecting streetlights.
He walked calmly.
But his steps clearly led to one place.
He stopped pretending.
He wanted to go back.
To the coffee stall.
To Pak Raka.
And maybe to answers.
When he reached the street, his phone showed 11:48 PM.
Still before midnight.
He stopped.
Looked at the row of buildings.
Most shop lights were off.
A few convenience stores were still open.
But the alley—
was not there.
He walked left.
Then right.
Still nothing.
Damar frowned.
He was sure it was here.
Between those two old buildings.
But now—
just a long wall.
Closed metal doors.
No alley.
No light.
No coffee aroma.
He stood there for almost five minutes.
Feeling foolish.
"Maybe it really doesn't exist," he said softly.
He was about to turn away—
when it happened.
A soft night breeze passed.
And with it—
the aroma returned.
Warm.
Rich.
Calling him.
Damar froze.
Slowly, he turned.
And there—
a narrow gap appeared.
A gap that hadn't been there before.
At the end of it—
a dim yellow light glowed.
The stall had returned.
But this time, something was different.
As he stepped inside—
he realized something chilling.
The alley felt longer.
Much longer.
And the deeper he walked—
the more the city behind him disappeared.
No traffic.
No voices.
Only his footsteps.
Tok.
Tok.
Tok.
He stopped.
Turned back.
The main road now seemed farther away than it should be.
The silence felt unnatural.
"Just calm down," he whispered.
Maybe it was just his mind.
But deep inside—
a possibility emerged.
What if this wasn't a normal alley?
He kept walking.
The coffee aroma grew stronger.
Strangely comforting.
And finally—
he reached the stall.
Pak Raka stood behind the counter as usual.
Calm.
Unhurried.
"You came back," he said.
Damar sat down.
"This alley feels longer tonight," he said.
Pak Raka poured coffee.
"Distance changes depending on who walks it," he replied.
"What do you mean?"
"Some people walk quickly toward what they need."
"And others?"
"They take longer because they hesitate."
Damar didn't know if that answered anything.
But like always, it felt like a puzzle.
Soon, footsteps echoed again.
A man appeared.
Tall.
Slow steps.
Something about him felt familiar.
He sat across from Damar.
"First time?" he asked.
"Third night," Damar replied.
"Then you're getting used to it."
"Used to what?"
"Places that don't follow the world's rules."
Damar laughed lightly.
Everyone here spoke like that.
Then—
a memory struck him.
A news article.
A car accident.
A man who died.
"Are you… Bima?" Damar asked.
The man froze.
"How do you know?"
"Did you die in a car accident?"
Silence fell.
Bima looked at him.
"…Yes."
Damar's blood ran cold.
"But strangely," Bima said calmly, "I don't feel dead."
As the conversation unfolded, Damar realized something terrifying.
This place wasn't just for the lost.
It was for those between worlds.
The living.
And the almost gone.
Later, another man rushed in—
breathless.
Terrified.
"I almost died," he said.
Bima smiled faintly.
"Interesting," he murmured.
"Why?"
"Because tonight, we have two kinds of guests."
He pointed to himself.
"I'm dead."
Then to the man.
"And he almost is."
Damar felt a chill down his spine.
Pak Raka finally spoke.
"This place," he said softly,
"sometimes appears between two worlds."
Damar swallowed.
"The world of the living…"
"And what comes after," Bima finished.
Later still, as Bima left—
he disappeared into the darkness.
Gone.
For good.
The alley grew shorter afterward.
Damar noticed.
Everything here changed.
With people.
With moments.
With decisions.
When Damar finally stood to leave, he paused.
A question formed.
"If people who are dying can come here…"
Pak Raka looked at him.
"…can people who aren't dead come here too… before their time?"
Silence.
"Sometimes," Pak Raka answered.
Damar's heart raced.
"Is that dangerous?"
"Not always."
"When is it dangerous?"
Pak Raka looked at him carefully.
"When someone comes here…"
He paused.
"…without realizing their life is already close to ending."
Damar stiffened.
"Has that happened?"
"A few times."
Cold wind blew through the alley.
Damar forced a smile.
"Good thing I'm not one of them."
Pak Raka didn't smile back.
Instead, he said softly—
"Are you sure?"
Damar froze.
The alley felt colder.
Quieter.
Then—
for the first time—
Pak Raka called his name.
"Damar."
Damar's body tensed.
"I never told you my name."
Pak Raka pointed behind him.
"That's because…"
He paused.
"…someone is calling your name at a hospital right now."
Damar's heart stopped.
"What?"
"The ambulance that almost hit you an hour ago."
Memory flashed.
Blinding lights.
A siren.
A step—
then nothing.
Pak Raka's voice remained calm.
"Your body is lying on the road."
Damar couldn't breathe.
"People are trying to wake you."
He looked at his hands.
Still holding the cup.
Warm.
Real.
Yet distant.
Pak Raka continued,
"The question is no longer whether you can find this place again."
Damar stared at him.
"The question is…"
The small lamp flickered violently.
"…whether you still have time to return to your world."
The alley turned cold.
And for the first time since he found the coffee stall—
Damar was truly afraid.