The paper was still in his pocket.
All day, it stayed there — folded, warm against his thigh, like a heartbeat that didn't belong to him.
No one else in the house knew about it. He hadn't shown them the prints. He hadn't asked again if anyone came upstairs.
Because deep down…
He already knew the answer.
It was watching.
And it wanted him to know.
He moved through the rest of the day like a shadow of himself.
Ayaan smiled when he was spoken to.
Nodded.
Laughed once or twice.
Even joined them for tea.
But his mind… it was in the room.
Back with the paper.
Back with that step he took across the border.
Later that night, when everyone had gone to bed, he sat again in the hall —
lights off, back to the wall, eyes on the staircase.
It wasn't fear anymore.
It was… preparation.
He wanted it to come again.
So he could face it.
But hours passed.
Nothing.
Until the silence itself changed.
Not broken — not exactly.
Just… thinned.
He stood.
Every instinct in his body said: Don't go up.
So he went up.
The stairs creaked under his weight, but only once.
Like the house was holding its breath.
His door was closed.
This time, locked — by him.
Still, he turned the knob.
It opened.
He froze.
There was a notebook on his bed.
His notebook — the one he hadn't used since school.
He hadn't even opened that drawer in months.
It was opened to a page near the middle.
And written there, in his own handwriting:
"You crossed. I waited."
He blinked.
He hadn't written that.
He knew his writing.
This matched.
The curves. The pressure. The rhythm.
But he hadn't written it.
He slowly backed away from the room.
Closed the door.
Went back downstairs.
This time, he didn't sit.
He left the house.
Slipped quietly through the gate and out into the night.
The air was sharp. Crisp.
The kind that made you feel like you were being watched — not by people, but by the sky itself.
He didn't have a destination.
He just walked.
Maybe to clear his head.
Maybe because being outside made him feel less trapped.
Streetlights flickered as he passed under them.
Once.
Then twice.
Then one went out completely.
He kept walking.
And then —
He saw her.
Just ahead.
On the other side of the road.
She stood still.
Not old. Not young.
No expression.
No movement.
Not even her clothes fluttered in the breeze.
And in that frozen moment, Ayaan realized something horrifying.
She was looking through him.
Like he wasn't even there.
Then her eyes snapped to him.
She smiled.
Not warmth. Not welcome.
Just… confirmation.
As if she had found the right person.
As if she had been searching.
Ayaan stepped back.
And then — she was gone.
No turn. No blink.
Just… not there anymore.
He ran.
Didn't care about the silence.
Didn't care about answers.
He wanted home.
Walls. Locks. Familiar air.
But as he reached his gate, he saw the paper again.
Folded. Sitting neatly on the ground.
This time, it wasn't a warning.
Just a name.
His name.
Written in a scrawl he recognized.
Not from childhood.
Not from school.
From the mirror.
Because it was the way he writes when he isn't thinking.
When his hand moves faster than his thoughts.
But he hadn't written it.
And yet… somehow… he had.