The impact left Bhairava unsteady. He knelt on the fractured floor, breath shallow, eyes locked on the blood smeared across his palm. Rage surged through him again, hotter than before. But then he froze.
"Blood?" he thought, blinking rapidly. He wiped his nose again, staring at the red stain. "It's blood… but I didn't feel any pain. Could it be?"
His eyes widened. A sudden realization clawed its way into his mind. He lifted his head, heart pounding, and looked toward where the figure had stood.
Empty.
The space was vacant. No shadow. No movement. He turned, scanning the room, but the figure was gone.
His heartbeat quickened. Fear crept in. The floor beneath him began to bend, vibrating violently. Cracks raced across the ceiling, splitting through the plaster and crawling toward the glass window. The walls groaned. The air felt heavy, unstable.
He struggled to stand, legs trembling, the ground shifting beneath him. "Don't tell me… this is a dream," he thought, panic rising.
The room was falling apart. The floor, the walls, the ceiling, everything cracked and splintered, as if reality itself was breaking.
Then, without warning, the figure appeared. Right in front of him.
Gun raised. Pointed directly at Bhairava's forehead. That same grin stretched across the void where its face should be.
Bhairava's eyes widened in horror.
The figure leaned in slightly, voice low and venomous. "Die."
The window behind them exploded inward. Glass shards flew like knives, slicing through the air. And in that instant, the figure pulled the trigger. The shot rang out.
With a violent jolt, Bhairava woke up, gasping. He sat upright on the bed, drenched in sweat, his breath ragged and uncontrollable. His chest heaved as if the nightmare had followed him into waking life.
He leapt from the bed, heart pounding, and rushed to Shivani's room. The door creaked open under his trembling hand.
There she was sleeping peacefully.
He stepped closer, eyes scanning her face, searching for the bullet wound he had seen so vividly. But there was nothing. No blood. No hole. Just the soft rhythm of her breath and the quiet rise and fall of her chest.
His breathing slowed. Relief washed over him in uneven waves. He lingered for a moment, watching her, then quietly stepped out.
Descending the stairs, he saw Bell curled up near the couch, tail twitching in sleep. He glanced toward his parents' room closed, but calm. No sounds of distress. No signs of chaos.
Everyone was fine.
He returned to his room, turned on the light and walked to the washroom. He stood in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection pale, shaken, eyes wide with something he couldn't name. He turned on the tap, cupped his hands, and splashed cold water on his face.
"It was just a dream," he whispered to the sink, as if saying it aloud might make it true.
He stepped out, sat on the edge of his bed, and reached for the water bottle. He drank slowly, trying to calm the storm inside him.
The silence of the room felt unnatural. The dream replayed in fragments blood, cracks, the figure, the gun. Shivani's lifeless body. He swallowed hard.
He placed the bottle back on the table. The clock blinked: 2:00 AM.
Next to it sat his diary. He reached for it, along with a pen, and opened to a blank page. The ink hovered above the paper as he began to write, trying to capture the nightmare before it faded.
But halfway through, his hand stopped.
Even if it was just a dream, the image of Shivani dying in front of him was unbearable. The words refused to come. His fingers trembled. He stared at the page, then quietly closed the diary and placed it back on the table.
He lay down, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. Sleep wouldn't come. How could it?
The fear still clung to him, thick and cold. It didn't feel like a dream. It felt like something real.
The night passed in silence, and morning crept in gently. Sunlight spilled across the room, warming the floorboards and softening the shadows. The alarm buzzed , sharp and familiar. Bhairava reached out, turned it off, and sat up slowly, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
He stared at the back of his hand.
The ink was still there.
He remembered everything the dream, the blood, the figure—but his body felt calm, as if the fear had settled into something quieter. He didn't know when sleep had finally taken him. The last thing he recalled was staring at the ceiling, watching the fan spin in slow circles.
He pushed the bedsheet aside and got up, moving through his morning routine with quiet efficiency. Shower. Clothes. Bag. College.
When he came downstairs, the news was playing softly in the living room. Ashok wasn't around and his mother, already dressed in a sharp suit, was hurriedly finishing preparations to leave somewhere important. Shivani sat at the table, calmly eating her breakfast, her posture relaxed.
Bhairava smiled softly as he saw her unharmed, peaceful. He sat beside her, still feeling the heaviness in his limbs.
Shivani looked at him, her eyes narrowing slightly. She raised her hand and signed, "What happened?"
Bhairava shook his head and smiled. "Nothing," he said, voice quiet.
Geetha placed the lunch boxes neatly on the table, her movements brisk and practiced. "Take the lunch with you. I may be late home today," she said, adjusting her bag as she headed toward the door.
As the door swung open, Bhairava, seated at the dining table, caught sight of the old man standing just outside the gate. The same man who had come by yesterday. His posture was tense, his face drawn with quiet worry, like someone who had been waiting too long for something unresolved.
Geetha stepped out and spoke to him briefly. Their exchange was calm but serious. Then, without hesitation, she got into the car with him, and they drove off together.
Then they both continued eating.