The bus ride home felt longer than usual.
Maybe it was the storm clouds above, pressing against the windows like they had weight. Or maybe it was the silence between me and Harish — a silence that used to be comfort, now sharp like broken glass.
I kept watching him from the corner of my eye. Every time he laughed with someone else, every time he typed into his phone, every time he avoided mine.
The page from the notebook replayed in my mind.
He will lie.
When I reached home, the house felt colder.
Not physically — just wrong.
There was a moment, as I stepped through the door, that I thought I saw someone at the end of the hallway. A blur. A flicker. Gone in a blink.
I waited. Held my breath.
Nothing.
I checked the storage space again, half expecting the notebook to be gone.
It wasn't. But there was something new inside it.
Another entry.
Written in my handwriting.
"You're close. Don't stop. Don't trust the mirror."
I turned to the mirror across my room instinctively. Stared into it.
Nothing strange. Just me.
But the more I looked, the more I noticed… my reflection wasn't breathing when I was.
Just a tiny delay. But it was there.
And then — it smiled.
I didn't.
I slammed the mirror shut, breathing hard.
"Okay," I whispered. "Okay, okay."
This wasn't just time-travel anymore. This was something else.
Someone else.
Watching.
Following.
Maybe even shaping the days I thought I was in control of.
That night, as Mom was making dinner, I tried asking her something I hadn't dared before.
"Do you remember what happened to Harish's father?"
She froze mid-stir.
Her eyes didn't blink for a second too long. Then she said, "Yes. But we don't talk about that. You know that."
"No," I said. "I don't. Remind me."
She turned. Her face softened, almost too much. "His father died in a fire. Terrible accident. That's all there is."
"But it wasn't an accident, was it?"
Her eyes changed then — like glass cracking under pressure.
"I think you should go to your room," she said softly. "You're tired."
I went. But I didn't sleep.
The storm arrived just after midnight. Lightning lit up the backyard like strobe lights, thunder clapping so hard the glass rattled.
And just before it hit its peak — the power went out again.
This time, I was ready.
Torch in hand, I slipped into the hallway and moved toward the mirror again.
The message had changed.
Not the notebook. The mirror itself.
Etched faintly in condensation:
"Behind him. Always."
I turned around so fast I nearly slipped — but there was nothing.
Just the empty hallway.
Empty. But not quiet.
Because somewhere, I heard a whisper. Faint and curling through the dark.
It said my name.
And it wasn't my mother's voice.
It was mine.