Shreya didn't sleep again that night.
Every shadow in her room felt like it moved independently, curling closer to her bed, listening, waiting. Every tick of the clock sounded heavier than the last, like the seconds themselves were weighted with dread.
Then she saw him again.
The man from the bridge.
Standing across the street from her window, perfectly still, backlit by the sickly streetlight. His shadow stretched far beyond reason, his head tilting unnaturally as he watched her.
Shreya's breath caught. She knew, somehow, he shouldn't exist. He had already died. And yet here he was.
Her instincts screamed to close the window, but curiosity—terrifying curiosity—pulled her closer.
She pressed her hand to the glass.
The man's head jerked slightly, as if noticing her for the first time. Then, impossibly, he smiled.
A low whisper brushed her mind: "You can't stop me."
Shreya stumbled back. Her heart hammered as if it might burst.
A loud crash sounded from the street below. She ran to the window, heart thudding, only to see nothing—no bike, no accident, no man.
And yet, when she looked at her reflection in the glass, she saw another pair of eyes staring back from the darkness behind her own.
Not hers.
She spun. Nothing.
But the air vibrated, thick and metallic, and a whisper, barely audible, repeated her name.
"Shreya…"
She knew it was coming.
She could feel it crawling closer. Something in the night had changed—time itself was unsteady, broken. And the man… the dead man… was only the beginning.
She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. Something was hunting tomorrow—and it had already found her.