The golden light of Jakarta's setting sun filtered through the glass windows of the "Last Page" bookstore, casting a warm glow that made the dust particles dance in the air. Arya Wijaya blinked three times, trying to shake off the drowsiness clinging to his eyelids like an invisible weight.
The soft chime of the shop's entrance bell shattered the silence, jolting him back to reality.
"Two more hours," he muttered, glancing at his worn-out wristwatch—a gift from his grandfather, the only valuable possession he had.
The antique bookstore was a world of its own, separate from the relentless noise of metropolitan Jakarta. Towering wooden shelves lined the space, creating narrow aisles filled with thousands of stories. The scent of aged paper, ink, and wood blended into an aroma that no modern mall could replicate. For Arya, this was his refuge—from the world, from expectations, from reality itself.
His phone vibrated. The name "Mom" flashed on the screen, making his heart beat faster. Arya took a deep breath before answering.
"Hello, Mom."
"Arya! Where are you? Have you sent your internship application to the company I told you about?" Her voice was the same as always—hurried, filled with unspoken expectations.
"I'm at the bookstore, Mom. And yes, I sent it last week." A lie. The application still sat untouched on his desk, buried beneath a pile of fantasy novels and mythology books borrowed from the university library.
"Good. Remember, opportunities don't come twice. Your cousin Dimas already secured a spot at a multinational company, and his GPA is lower than yours. All because of networking and determination."
Arya rolled his eyes. Of course. Dimas—the perfect one. Dimas, the benchmark for success. Dimas, who never questioned his parents' plans. Dimas, whose life had been mapped out since birth.
"Yes, Mom. I understand."
"Tomorrow, you need to come to dinner at Aunt Mira's house. Uncle Hendra can recommend you for a job at his company. Don't forget to bring your transcripts."
A quiet sigh escaped Arya's lips. "But I have a shift tomorrow—"
"Cancel it. Working at a bookstore won't take you anywhere. How long do you plan to waste your time among old books? Life isn't just about fantasy, Arya."
Silence. He wanted to say that among these old books, he felt most alive. That these yellowed pages understood him better than anyone ever had. But as always, he simply nodded, even though she couldn't see it.
"Alright, Mom. I'll be there."
The call ended. Arya pressed his forehead against the bookstore window, the cool glass soothing his skin. Outside, Jakarta moved at its usual frantic pace—taxi horns blaring, engines humming, people rushing toward their destinations. Everyone seemed to have a place and a purpose. Everyone except him.
"You look like someone in need of an escape," a deep voice startled him.
Arya turned to see Mr. Surya, the bookstore's owner, handing him a cup of warm tea. The old man, with his white hair and round glasses, offered a knowing smile.
"Thanks, sir." Arya accepted the cup, feeling the warmth spread through his hands. "Just... the usual problems."
"My boy, there's no such thing as 'usual problems.' Every problem is its own adventure." Mr. Surya's smile deepened, his wrinkles more pronounced. "You know, books have their own problems too."
Arya frowned. "What kind of problems can a book have?"
"They fear being forgotten," Mr. Surya said, tapping a nearby shelf. "Just like all of us. Afraid that our story will end before it truly begins."
The words hit Arya like a needle piercing his heart. Wasn't that exactly what he feared? That his life would pass him by, following a pre-determined path, without ever finding his true purpose?
"Speaking of which," Mr. Surya continued, "a shipment of old books arrived this morning. Can you help with the inventory? The boxes are in the back room."
Grateful for the distraction, Arya nodded.
In the back room, five old cardboard boxes sat stacked in a corner. Carefully, he opened the first box.
Dust rose into the air, carrying the unmistakable scent of aged paper. Arya sneezed three times before pulling out the books one by one—mostly classic novels and history texts from the colonial era.
Then he reached the last box.
It was different—smaller, older, with strange carvings etched into its lid. When Arya opened it, he found only a single book inside. A thick, leather-bound tome in deep crimson, with no title, no author.
"Strange," he muttered, flipping through its pages. There were no markings, no publication details—nothing.
The first page held only a single line, written in gold ink:
"For those who seek a way home to a place they have never been."
Arya frowned. What did that mean? How could someone long for a place they had never visited? Yet, for some reason, the words sent a shiver through him.
He turned the next page.
Blank.
The next one—also blank. Page after page, nothing but emptiness.
"What kind of book is this?" he murmured, flipping faster.
Then—suddenly—a page with writing.
Not in any language he recognized. The script flowed like a dance, the letters twisting and curling, as if alive and moving on the paper.
And yet, Arya could read it.
He didn't know how, but the words whispered in his mind, clear as his own mother tongue.
"Those who have been chosen will find the path. Speak the following words to open the door that has remained unseen."
His heartbeat thundered in his chest. This was insane. Maybe it was some kind of puzzle book, a forgotten riddle. But curiosity held him in a vice grip. His brown eyes traced the next line of text.
Slowly, he whispered the foreign words aloud.
"Narabhan eldiora khasanar."
A sudden gust of wind tore through the enclosed room, sending pages fluttering wildly. A golden light burst from the book's center, growing brighter and brighter. Arya stumbled backward, shielding his eyes with his arm.
When he dared to look again, the book was floating—suspended midair, its pages glowing, radiating energy.
"No way," he breathed, caught between awe and terror.
From within the portal forming before him, he heard it—leaves rustling, unfamiliar birds singing, the whisper of a wind unlike anything he had ever known. A scent drifted through—fresh earth, damp forest, the wild scent of a world untouched by time.
Arya took a step back, but his heel caught on a box. He tumbled onto the floor just as the portal expanded, pulling with an invisible force.
"Mr. Surya!" he shouted, panic surging through him. "MR. SURYA!"
No answer. Only the deafening roar of wind and blinding golden light.
He felt himself being lifted off the ground. His fingers clawed at the bookshelf, desperate to hold on. But the pull was too strong.
"This isn't happening," he gasped, his breath coming in short bursts.
In an instant, his feet left the floor. He was weightless, yanked toward the glowing void. His scream was swallowed by the roaring wind.
Then, just like that—Arya Wijaya vanished from the back room of "The Last Page" bookstore.
All that remained was the crimson book, now closed, lying still on the floor.
On its final page, new words shimmered in gold:
"Arya Wijaya, the Reader of Fate."
Meanwhile, in a world far beyond, a young man from Jakarta fell from a golden sky, crashing into a forest where the trees shimmered like silver and melodies unknown to human ears echoed in the air.
His adventure had just begun.