"Sometimes it is not the scream you hear that kills you,
but the silence that follows—
heavy, stretching,
swallowing everything that was once alive."
The sun hung low, bleeding into the dusty skies of Bhairavpur. The village's narrow paths shimmered with a strange glow, neither day nor night, caught in that dangerous in-between. The group moved sluggishly, drained from the past days of tension and the relentless weight of the villagers' stares.
Kabir, however, carried an energy that set him apart. Restless, determined, his eyes darted constantly—reading signs, observing shadows, searching for meaning in every detail. His impatience was a pulse felt by all, though no one dared comment on it.
"Look at this place," Aman muttered, kicking a loose stone. "It's like the whole village breathes differently. Doesn't it creep you out?"
"Everything creeps you out," Meghana replied, but her voice lacked conviction.
Kabir ignored them both. His focus was razor sharp. He walked a few steps ahead, boots crushing the dry soil, shoulders squared. "Stop wasting energy. We're here for a reason. You heard the mother—her child is missing. We can't just sit around. We'll divide again."
Everyone groaned quietly. They hated dividing, but Kabir's tone brooked no argument.
They gathered at a fork in the path. One trail led deeper into the fields, lined with a row of crooked trees. The other wound through the cluster of huts, where smoke rose lazily from clay chimneys.
Kabir scanned both. Then he turned to the group, his expression unreadable.
"I'll check the field near the old banyan. Alone."
"Alone?" Zoya raised an eyebrow. "That's dumb. We said no more solo runs."
Kabir's jaw tightened. "It's faster this way. I'll be fine. Just do your part."
Silence stretched. The others exchanged glances but said nothing. Perhaps it was exhaustion, perhaps trust—or perhaps they simply didn't care enough to argue anymore.
"Fine," Aman muttered. "Don't get lost."
Kabir gave no answer. He adjusted his sling bag, tugged at his jacket, and without another word, strode down the path into the field.
It seemed ordinary, unremarkable. None of them realized then—it was the last time they saw him walk away.
The remaining five drifted toward the huts. The village was quiet, eerily so. A few women eyed them suspiciously, their hands frozen in mid-task as though the outsiders had disturbed something sacred.
Abhay walked behind the others, dragging a stick against the mud walls as they passed, lost in his own thoughts. He hadn't spoken much since they arrived in Biharapur. His silence was a cloak, and though no one commented, they all felt its weight.
A group of children gathered near the well, humming a tune. It wasn't playful—it had a rhythm, old and ritualistic. The words were unintelligible, yet the tone carried something primal.
"What are they singing?" Meghana whispered.
"Don't ask," Zoya replied quickly, pulling her along.
The group questioned villagers, searched alleys, peered into houses. Yet every inquiry about the missing girl returned the same blank stare, the same shrug. It was as if the village itself conspired to remain silent.
None of them noticed how long Kabir had been gone.
When the sun tilted further, they returned to the fork where they'd parted ways.
Kabir wasn't there.
"Maybe he went back," Aman said with forced calm.
"Or maybe he's waiting for us at the hut," Meghana offered.
The unease prickled, but no one admitted it aloud. Exhaustion smothered their instincts. They trudged back, assuming, trusting, pretending.
The hut was dim when they entered. The air smelled faintly of smoke and damp straw. Each of them collapsed onto the mats laid out earlier.
But Kabir's mat remained empty.
Radhika frowned. "He's still not here."
"He'll come," Aman muttered, lying down and throwing his arm over his face. "Kabir's always fine."
The others nodded mutely. The day had drained them; concern flickered only briefly before fatigue consumed it.
Soon, the hut filled with the sound of shallow breaths. Everyone drifted into uneasy sleep.
The Whisper in the Night
Only Abhay stirred past midnight. His eyes opened to the cold press of silence, broken only by the occasional shuffle of mice.
And then he heard it.
A whisper. Low. Drawn-out. His name.
"Abhay…"
His breath caught. He turned slowly, eyes darting across the dark hut. Everyone else slept.
The whisper came again, this time from outside. Gentle. Urgent.
"Abhay…"
He rose, careful not to wake the others, and peered through a gap in the hut's wall. The moon cast a silver sheen over the path. The trees stood still, the dust unmoving.
But there was no one there.
Just as he leaned back, convinced it was a dream, he thought he saw a shadow—familiar shoulders, the outline of Kabir—slip past the far corner of the lane.
His chest tightened.
Abhay sat frozen, unsure whether to follow or to hide.
When the shadow faded into the night, he lay back down without a word. His lips trembled as though wanting to speak, but he swallowed it down.
No one else stirred.
"The dead do not announce themselves.
They walk with us in silence,
until silence itself is all that remains."