It was eleven at night. Kabir and Vedant were in Kabir's bathroom. There was an unfamiliar closeness between them. Kabir leaned in near his lips, but Vedant slightly turned his face away, just enough so that Kabir couldn't touch his lips. Letting out a suppressed breath, Kabir leaned his head back and turned around, resting his back against the bathtub and sat down on the floor.
"Why are you here? Your fiancée will be upset."
"Why are you thinking so much about her?" he asked softly. Don't you like me being here? If you really don't... then I won't come again." Kabir said. But Vedant said nothing. His eyelids lowered, and he turned away.
Kabir waited for a moment, but when no reply came from Vedant, he quietly stood up and started walking towards the door. Vedant didn't stop him. But it wasn't that he didn't want to stop him. Rather, he himself didn't understand why he was liking these moments with Kabir. Why there was peace in this strange closeness. And as long as there was doubt in his heart, he couldn't give Kabir an answer.
Kabir was supposed to be his enemy but why was even this enmity starting to feel good?
Since morning, whatever had happened... Kabir seemed changed. Unlike his usual behavior, something was there, something unseen.
Red Pine – 8 PM
At that Red Pine, darkness used to fall a bit too early. As the day faded, it felt like the entire area got wrapped in a blanket of black smoke. Today too, the same thing had happened. Though the clock showed only eight, the view outside looked like midnight had already passed.
The Writer had finished his dinner by seven, as always. Rishi didn't have anything better to do in his room at this hour, so he insisted on joining the Writer in the library. Despite the Writer's refusal, Rishi's stubbornness finally made him give in. There wasn't much conversation between them yet. Rishi was trying to approach, he wanted to talk to the Writer. But the Writer wasn't giving him any chance. There was still one thing bothering Rishi, That girl in the room. How was she still alive?
They were both in the library now, but a constant silence hung between them.
Rishi kept trying to start a conversation, but the Writer had built a wall around him.
Every attempt at communication drowned in the ocean of his silence. But the questions storming inside Rishi were heavier than this silence. That girl… she still lingered in his thoughts.
He had never seen the Writer open that room's door. So how was the girl inside?
How was she alive without eating, without drinking? Without a single sound?
"Is she… a ghost? Or…Does the Writer somehow sneak into that room without Rishi ever noticing? But how is that even possible?
The Writer followed the same routine every single day. Meals were cooked in exact portions, never more than needed. Not a single grain extra. Then where was the food for that girl coming from? Or… did she not need food at all?
The thought sent a shiver crawling down Rishi's spine. Goosebumps rose on his arms, and a cold chill ran from the back of his neck down to his tailbone. He glanced again at the Writer, who was still completely immersed in his laptop, calm, detached, as if lost in another world.
"Could she be… a ghost? What's her connection to the Writer? Is he really capable of something so cruel?" A storm of questions hammered at Rishi's mind. His head felt heavy with doubt. He took a deep breath, and looked at the Writer again, tired, confused, but resolute.
The Writer was still typing furiously. His fingers raced across the keyboard like they were chasing runaway words. On the table in front of him: an open journal, a pen, and a half-filled glass of whiskey. The same glass that stood there every night without fail.
Since the incident, the Writer had seemed… different. Quieter. Colder. His face had become unreadable, like a book with missing pages. And always, one question haunted Rishi's mind: Is that girl the reason behind this change? At last, Rishi couldn't hold it in any longer. He stood up abruptly and walked straight to the Writer.
The Writer's fingers stopped mid-sentence.
He looked up at Rishi, a flicker of irritation crossing his face.
"I need answers to two questions," Rishi said firmly, his voice calm but unyielding. "You once said, I can ask two questions a day."
The Writer sighed, a long, tired breath. The weight of an old promise hanging heavy in the air.
"That was then. Not anymore."
"So that's your word now?" Rishi shot back. "A writer, going back on his own words?
You write stories about empathy, about understanding human pain and yet here you are?" The Writer closed his eyes briefly. Then opened them slowly, turning to face Rishi.
"Ask. But only two."
"Why do you live here alone?"
"Because I prefer it," the Writer replied, his voice measured and calm. "My work is writing. And there's no better place for it than this.
Being around people… it suffocates me."
"Not even one percent of that answer is a lie?" Rishi asked. The Writer shook his head.
"How long have you been alone?"
"For as long as I can remember."
"Family?" Writer smiled, but there was something deeply bitter in that smile. "You've asked three questions. I've answered all three." Rishi cursed himself again. Every time. Every single time, he wasted his questions on surface-level curiosities. And the answers… they never went deeper than the surface.
"At this pace, Rishi, it'll take you a hundred years to solve this mystery," he muttered under his breath. Suddenly, a spark lit up in his eyes. A thought struck him. He moved quickly toward the Writer, this time looking directly into his eyes. The Writer's gaze narrowed with suspicion.
"What are you doing now?"
"Your wounds… are they healing okay?" he asked, deliberately.
"Don't worry. I handle it," the Writer replied, his voice holding a quiet warning.
"Can I take a look?"
"No." The Writer turned away sharply, as if drawing a hard line with that one word.
Rishi clenched his jaw. He pressed his lips together and took a slow, deep breath. Then, without another word, he turned around and walked straight out of the library.
The Writer didn't look up. He simply exhaled deeply and returned to typing on his laptop.
But not even a full minute had passed before Rishi returned and stood beside him again.
The Writer glanced at him, without lifting his head and his brows furrowed. Rishi was holding a first aid box in his hand.
"What now?" the Writer asked, his voice tinged with irritation.
Rishi knelt down in front of him. The Writer immediately leaned back in his chair, startled.
"You got hurt because of me. The least I can do... is take care of it. Can I dress the wound?"
"I said there's no need. I'll do it myself."
The Writer turned his face away.
"No. It happened because of me. And until it heals, I'm going to take care of it myself."
"Do you not understand a simple no?" the Writer's voice was sharp now.
"No, I don't," Rishi replied, just as firmly.
And without waiting, he reached for the third button on the Writer's shirt.
The Writer's eyes filled with a mix of surprise and subtle tension. He immediately placed his hand over Rishi's to stop him. Their eyes locked. Rishi gave a soft, genuine smile.
"Please. Let me do this. I know I shouldn't have gone into that room without your permission," he said softly. "This is your home, and I had no right to enter without your consent. I promise you, I won't do anything like that again, not without asking first." A gentle, innocent smile appeared on his face, and the dimple on his cheek caught the Writer's gaze for a moment, held it still. The Writer's breath seemed to pause. He didn't say anything. Just silently moved his hand away in quiet agreement.
Rishi smiled again. Slowly, he began to unbutton the Writer's shirt, and when his eyes landed on the wound, he saw an old bandage covering it. Carefully, he peeled it off and began cleaning the wound, gently blowing on it as he did. The Writer's eyes never left Rishi's face.
A soft crease of worry lined Rishi's forehead, and every time his fingers brushed against the Writer's skin, something within the Writer stirred, something unfamiliar. Someone getting this close… without being asked. Without being afraid.
If Rishi had looked up at that moment, he might've seen the faint blush rising on the Writer's face… or the conflicting emotions swimming in his eyes. The Writer quietly turned his face away and blew out a slow, controlled breath.
"Does it hurt?" Rishi asked, glancing at him.
The Writer didn't reply. He just sat there silently. Rishi carefully applied the medicine, then placed a fresh bandage on the wound. He stood up slowly.
"It's done." The Writer raised his head, but before he could say anything, Rishi leaned forward again. He started buttoning the Writer's shirt. The Writer's eyes widened in surprise. He just sat there, staring, unblinking, trying to figure this boy out. Why was he doing this? Why was he so comfortable… so unaffected?
Rishi's fingers moved steadily, gracefully. There was no hesitation, no awkwardness. As if this was just a normal, everyday thing.
But for the Writer, it wasn't.
Rishi closed the first aid box and silently walked back into the Writer's room to return it.
Without making a sound, he turned into the hallway and started walking toward his room.
The Red Pine was steeped in silence. Every wall seemed to be holding its breath. Red Pine, like every night, was thick with secrets.
Then suddenly…A faint sound. Very soft, but unmistakable.
Rishi stopped mid-step. He turned his head slowly. But behind him… there was only darkness. Thick, suffocating darkness. He quickened his pace. Just two more doors to cross.
And then…..
A shadow. A dark silhouette. It slipped from the ceiling and came crashing down on him.
The attack was sudden, silent. So swift, Rishi didn't even have time to scream.
"Aaah!!" His scream echoed against the wooden walls of Red Pine.
The next second, his body slammed into the railing. The wood cracked and split. And then, he fell. Fell straight toward the hall below.
It all happened in seconds. No one to catch him. No voice calling out. The shadow, was gone. As if it had never been there at all.
Rishi's body hung in the air for a moment…
And then…..