Sleep refused to come.
Ayaan remained at his desk long after the city outside had gone quiet. The lamp threw a tight circle of light over the open book, leaving the rest of the room swallowed by shadow. He turned the pages slowly, mechanically. His eyes followed the words; his mind stayed elsewhere.
Every time he blinked, the street returned.
The hesitation.The running.The girl vanishing.
He wondered how many people had passed through that street that night and chosen not to see.
At some point, the book slipped from his fingers.
He slept.
"Ayaan, breakfast!"
His mother's voice pulled him back into the world.
He sat up, disoriented, hair tangled, eyes heavy. For a moment, nothing made sense. Then everything did.
He washed his face, tied his hair back, and walked into the dining room.
His father sat on the couch, remote in hand, eyes fixed on the television.
The news anchor spoke in a low, deliberate tone.
"The body of a young girl was found early this morning. Authorities are investigating the case—"
Ayaan stopped moving.
The screen shifted to a blurred image of the street. Then a clip played—a boy standing among people, his voice cracking, hands trembling.
"I could've saved her," the boy sobbed. "I should've done something. I was there. I just— I just ran."
His mother placed a plate in front of Ayaan. "Terrible world," she said quietly.
His father exhaled. "Kids these days. No courage."
Ayaan didn't touch the food. He watched the boy on the screen, his eyes hollow, his words spilling out as if they were tearing through him.
The world had already chosen its culprit.
At school, no one talked about software or exams.
They talked about her.
"She was from a nearby college.""Did you see the video?""Poor boy, he's traumatized.""Coward."
Ayaan stayed silent in his seat, listening.
He noticed who spoke loudly. Who whispered. Who avoided the conversation entirely.
People found tragedy easier to consume when it belonged to someone else.
That evening, he skipped the library.
He went straight home.
He sat before his computer, fingers resting on the keyboard, eyes locked on the screen. The boy's face from the broadcast replayed in his mind.
Name.School.Neighborhood.
Public information was a strange thing. People feared hidden networks, yet offered their lives freely in plain sight.
Within an hour, the boy stopped being just a face on television. He became a profile. A pattern. A trajectory that could be mapped.
Ayaan leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.
Then he opened a new window and typed a number.
The phone rang.
Once.Twice.
A click.
"Hello?"
The voice sounded smaller than it had on the news.
Ayaan's voice was different—calm, measured, unfamiliar.
"Do you still think about her?"
Silence followed.
"Who is this?" the boy asked, tension creeping in.
"You were there," Ayaan said, ignoring the question. "You ran."
The boy's breathing shifted. "How do you have this number?"
"You know what you should have done."
The line went quiet.
Then, barely audible, "I couldn't."
Ayaan watched the screen instead of the call. He imagined the boy sitting somewhere alone, shoulders drawn inward, hands shaking.
"You could have," he said. "You chose not to."
"I was scared."
"So was she."
The words settled between them.
The boy swallowed. "Stop."
Ayaan leaned forward.
"You don't get to stop thinking about it."
The call disconnected.
Ayaan didn't call again that night.
He didn't need to.
Seeds didn't require shouting.
They required time.