Some things appear only when you stop looking for them.
But Aarohi hadn't even started.
She just woke up.
There was a faint stinging in her wrist — like a rash.
She sat up groggily, rubbing her eyes.
The window was shut this time.
The fan was moving.
But her wrist… wasn't normal.
There was something written on it.
Faint. Ancient.
In Sanskrit.
Three words.
"त्रयोदश वेला स्थगित"
Ishaan translated it later that morning, brows furrowed:
"The Thirteenth Hour Paused."
Aarohi stared at him. "What even is a thirteenth hour?"
Vivan answered from the doorway:
"The time between 12:00 and 12:41 AM. When this world… holds its breath."
That evening, Vivan was distant. He wouldn't meet Aarohi's eyes.
"Is something wrong?" she asked.
He didn't answer.
Instead, he left a small note on the table:
"If the forest chooses you… it will mark you.
Do not let it speak through you."
Later that night, Aarohi tried to sleep.
But the bansuri returned.
Not like before.
This time — it was in reverse.
Like a memory rewinding.
A devotion unsung.
It was soft… but wrong.
And she began to hear words inside the tune.
"Come back."
"You were there."
"You left him."
Aarohi grabbed her pillow and screamed into it. "NOT TONIGHT, KRISHNA."
But when she looked down again…
the Sanskrit mark on her wrist had spread.
Now it read:
"दर्शन न करो"
Do not witness.
Ishaan barged in moments later. "I heard you shout—"
He paused.
On Aarohi's wrist, the mark faded as he looked at it.
"What the hell is happening to you?" he whispered.
Aarohi was trembling.
"I think…" she said, barely able to breathe,
"I think something is trying to speak through me."
Behind them, the lights flickered.
Outside the window — the trees didn't move.
But their shadows did.