°•~Happy Reading~•°

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The old archives building in Yogyakarta was a place people seldom visited. It stood stoic in a quiet corner, a relic from the colonial era, its thick wooden doors and cracked walls whispering tales of forgotten times. But for Retno, a young woman with a curiosity that bordered on obsession, the archives were a sanctuary. The smell of aged paper and dust comforted her, a reminder of history's fragile beauty.

Retno's daily routine started with the early morning walk to the archives. She'd push open the heavy doors, take in the quiet hum of the old ceiling fans, and nod to Pak Darman, the elderly caretaker who had watched over the building for decades. His thin frame was always hunched over a table, organizing piles of documents as if each contained a piece of himself. He once told Retno, "History breathes, you know. It's a living thing." She didn't quite understand then but knew his words stayed with her.

On Thursday morning, Retno was deep in a box of unindexed documents, her fingers grazing over brittle newspaper clippings, handwritten letters, and faded photos. Her hand paused over an old sepia-toned picture of a woman with a strong, determined look. The date scrawled on the back read 1947. The woman's face held a quiet resilience, a mixture of grace and grit that fascinated Retno. She felt drawn to her, sensing an unspoken connection.

Curiosity propelled her to dig deeper, and soon Retno found letters and documents mentioning the woman—Ida Wulandari, a nurse during the Indonesian struggle for independence. Her eyes widened as she read about Ida's role in tending to wounded soldiers hidden in the nearby hills. She sacrificed much of her youth and health in service to her country. Retno wondered why no one knew of her; Ida's story had somehow been lost in time.

Later that evening, Retno stayed past her usual hours, reluctant to leave. The dim glow of her desk lamp cast long shadows as she read every letter, every note that had Ida's name on it. In the quiet, she imagined Ida moving through the same streets of Yogyakarta she walked every day, living a life of purpose and sacrifice.

Pak Darman shuffled over, glancing at the documents spread across Retno's desk. He smiled knowingly. "Not everyone gets remembered," he said softly, "but everyone leaves a mark." His voice lingered in the stillness of the room.

As Retno gathered her things to leave, she felt a shift in her heart—a sense of duty to remember Ida's story, to ensure her mark would never fade.

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••°°THE END°°••