The corridor outside the library was colder than it had any right to be. Not cold like air-conditioned rooms—cold like breath on the back of your neck when no one's there.
Rizki paused just outside the heavy wooden doors. He looked back. Nothing.
Of course.
Still, the tingling on his skin refused to leave. The red thread curled tighter in his pocket, like it was reacting to something. Or someone.
He turned a corner—and stopped.
There she was again.
Ranti. Sitting on the wide stone steps that led down to the science wing, half-lit by the murky glow of an old window. She had her sleeves rolled up, elbows on her knees, and that same unreadable expression he remembered from the library.
She looked up.
"So," she said, "still chasing the thread?"
He blinked. "You remember?"
"You think I'd forget something that weird?" she replied, standing. "A mysterious book. A vanishing librarian. And a red string that twitched like it had a pulse."
They stood in silence for a beat. Then Ranti walked past him, toward the courtyard.
"Well?" she called over her shoulder. "Coming?"
Rizki followed.
They ended up beneath the banyan tree at the edge of the school grounds. The branches swayed, even though there was no wind. The thread in Rizki's pocket gave a tug.
Ranti leaned against the trunk. "I did some digging. About the book."
"You found something?"
"No. That's the weird part. It's not registered in the school catalog. Not on any inventory list. Nothing."
He frowned. "So it doesn't exist."
"Oh, it exists," Ranti said. "Just not officially."
Rizki pulled out the red thread. It was still tied in that perfect loop, the knot untouched. "This thing… it reacted when I touched the book. It felt alive."
Ranti nodded. "Like it's part of something bigger."
They stared at it for a moment.
Then she said, "My grandmother used to tell stories. About threads. Invisible ones. Connecting people. Fates."
"Like the red string of fate?"
"Not quite." Ranti's voice lowered. "In her version, the thread didn't just connect souls. It chose them. Pulled them into something ancient. Dangerous."
Rizki shivered.
"Did she ever say where it came from?"
"She called it benang nasib. Said it was older than kingdoms. Woven by hands no one remembers."
They fell silent again.
Above them, the banyan leaves rustled harder now. A whisper, soft and curling, like the wind carried voices.
Ranti turned. "You heard that, right?"
Rizki nodded.
Then the thread in his hand twitched.
Once.
Twice.
Then pulled.
Toward the east wing.
The old part of the school.
Ranti looked at him, her eyes wide.
"Let's go," she said.
He hesitated. "You sure?"
She nodded. "If we're in this now, we're in it together."
The east wing was supposed to be sealed off. Unsafe, they said. Earthquake damage from years ago.
But the padlock on the gate hung open.
Rizki and Ranti exchanged a glance.
Inside, the halls were darker, narrower. The air was thick with dust and silence.
And then—they heard it.
A whisper.
A single word.
"Rizki..."
He spun.
No one.
But the thread tugged harder. Down the hallway, toward a rusted door with peeling paint.
He stepped forward, pulse racing.
Ranti grabbed his arm.
"Wait."
"What?"
She pointed.
Faintly etched above the doorframe—barely visible under the dust—was a symbol.
A circle with a single thread weaving through it.
The same symbol from the cover of the book.
Rizki reached for the door.
It creaked open.
And then the red thread unraveled from his hand—on its own—and slithered inside.
They followed.
The room was empty. At first.
Then, on the far wall, letters began to appear. Burned into the stone like ink on skin.
The chosen will follow the thread. But the thread will not always lead them home.
The thread coiled at their feet.
And somewhere deep in the school, a bell began to toll.
But it wasn't the school bell.
It hadn't rung in years.