The sun rose quietly, slipping through the half-closed curtains of the room Piyush now called his own.
He hadn't slept.
How could he?
Every time he closed his eyes, he expected to wake up back on the dusty hostel floor, sore and broken, with the sharp smell of paint thinner and mold in his nostrils.
But the mattress beneath him was soft. The air smelled of wood polish and lavender. He had clean bedsheets. A ceiling fan that didn't creak. And a door that locked from the inside.
He had never felt less at home.
The room had no photos. No posters. Just one neatly stacked shelf of books—economics, philosophy, modern Indian law. All underlined. All tagged. Every corner of the room was organized like someone was preparing for an interview that never came.
There was only one framed thing on the table: a laminated school ID.
> Ishaan Verma
Class: 12-A
St. Gabriel's Public School
Roll no. 21
Piyush stared at the photo. It was the same face as the mirror—cold, expressionless, eyes sharp like they were always watching something.
> "This isn't me," he whispered.
He sat at the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair.
But whose life was he pretending to live?
---
Downstairs, the house was silent.
No smell of cooking. No radio. No shouting or laughter. Nothing like his old home.
Just the quiet sound of privilege.
Piyush crept into the kitchen and made himself a cup of tea—poorly. The milk boiled over. The tea was bitter. But the warmth helped.
He sat alone at the dining table. No one joined him. No one asked where he had been. No one seemed to care that he'd just returned from the hospital.
Just then, a maid entered, placing a lunchbox and water bottle on the table without a word.
"Sir's car will take you to school," she said.
"School?"
She nodded. "Your father said to go back today. 'Act normal,' he said."
> Act normal.
Normal?
What part of this was normal?
---
8:15 AM
The black SUV pulled into St. Gabriel's School.
Piyush stepped out, the sunlight sharp on his face. The uniform he wore was tailored—crisp, ironed, and fit like a second skin. Nothing like the oversized shirts he used to wear.
As he entered the gate, heads turned.
Some nodded.
Others moved aside.
It was subtle, but clear.
Ishaan Verma had a reputation.
He didn't smile. He didn't speak. He walked straight toward the building like a shadow with weight.
Inside, students whispered. Teachers looked twice. Some greeted him with a mix of confusion and caution.
"Good to see you back, Ishaan."
"Feeling better?"
"You're early."
He nodded to them all, silently.
But inside, Piyush's thoughts were screaming.
> They think I'm him.
They don't know. Not a single one of them knows.
What kind of life did this guy live?
---
Class 12-A
He found his seat by the window. Third row. Second bench. A girl beside him glanced once, then returned to her notes.
No one said a word.
Until he heard it.
> "Back from the dead, huh?"
The voice came from behind.
Piyush turned slightly.
A boy with dyed hair, a piercing on his lip, and a scar near his eyebrow grinned at him. "Didn't expect to see you again. Heard your head cracked open."
Piyush forced a smile. "Guess not hard enough."
The boy laughed, satisfied. "That's more like it."
He didn't ask his name. He couldn't. Everyone around him already knew who they were. If he slipped, if he spoke wrong, asked too much—it would all fall apart.
He stared out the window and exhaled.
> I don't belong here. But I have no choice but to play the part.
---
Lunch Break
He ate alone. Not because no one invited him, but because they left him alone out of instinct.
No one sat too close.
No one joked around him.
Even the teachers lowered their voices when they passed.
Piyush was beginning to understand: Ishaan Verma was feared. Not loved. Not hated. Just… feared.
And in that moment, for the first time, he felt something unfamiliar.
Power.
It was quiet. It was heavy. It was dangerous.
But it was his—at least for now.
> "If I have to live like a ghost," he muttered, "I might as well learn to haunt properly."
---
To be continued…