**Chapter 1: Two Days Before**
The dense air of Chinmaya Gram carried the heavy scent of wet earth and freshly plucked marigolds, but beneath that familiar smell, there was a tension—unspoken, like a faint tremor ripple pooling across the village.
Aarav navigated the narrow lane toward school, his schoolbag slung loosely over one shoulder. Morning sunlight filtered through the mango leaves, casting shifting patterns on the worn stone walls. The seasonal festival lamps were stacked beside the temple steps, awaiting their turn to light the coming days, but the villagers already hummed soft prayers to Kala Ma, grandmother's voice threading among them.
As he walked, Aarav's mind drifted. The soft chatter of students echoed from the schoolyard—friends calling out greetings, laughter sparked by Kabir's antics as usual, and somewhere, the sharp voice of the head girl, Diya, keeping order.
"Aarav, wait up!" Kabir's voice was playful, pulling him from thoughts of equations and exam worries.
"Aren't you late for once?" Aarav teased, matching his friend's pace.
"Only because I was trying to find Ritwik," Kabir replied, his grin shadowed by something Aarav didn't catch immediately.
They found Ritwik near the banyan tree, seated cross-legged with chessboard balanced on his knee, thoughtfully moving a pawn while murmuring strategy to himself. The usual quiet confidence softened by an unusual frown.
"Lost a game?" Aarav asked, settling beside him.
Ritwik's eyes lifted and met his. "No, but I keep thinking about the festival—there's an old story my grandfather told me about Kala Ma that feels… different this year."
Diya joined them, eyes sharp and bright as ever, carrying a basket of flowers. "You believe those old stories?" she asked, setting the fragrant marigolds beside the tree roots.
"I don't know," Aarav admitted. "Sometimes it feels like there's something beneath all the rituals. Like the way the village holds its breath when the festival starts."
Kabir laughed, though his voice faltered. "You sound like a ghost story waiting to happen."
Ritwik glanced at Aarav. "Maybe that's because some stories are true. At least, partly. About time and memory and…"
His words trailed, swallowed by the rustling leaves.
The group rose with the school bell's call, scattering toward classrooms. Aarav's footsteps aligned with Diya's as they walked the familiar path.
"You think something will happen?" he asked quietly.
Her gaze didn't waver. "I don't know. But there's a strange feeling in the air."
The school day unfolded with usual lessons—the dusty map of Tamil Nadu, drills in Sanskrit verses, and a history lecture on ancient Sundara kingdoms whose gods were said to watch over time itself. Aarav's attention flickered, dragged away by the window beside his seat framing the banyan tree, its massive twisting roots seeming to clutch something secret beneath the soil.
During lunch, the courtyard buzzed with gossip and cricket. Aarav caught Diya comparing notes with a worried expression, Kabir tossing a battered ball lazily with friends, and Ritwik sketching a chessboard with distracted fingers. None spoke of trouble, but whispers of tension echoed faintly—the village council's insistence on perfect festival rites, rumors of a stranger seen near the temple late at night, hushed warnings from elders.
That evening, Aarav sat by the temple pond, watching the first flickers of festival lamps ignite the creeping darkness. The reflection in the water shifted oddly beneath the shimmering lights; for a moment, he thought he saw a pair of glowing eyes watching him from the far bank.
"Kala Ma always watches," an elderly voice said behind him.
The village priest stood wrapped in a shawl, eyes distant as he murmured blessings.
"Do you think… the stories are true?" Aarav asked, voice barely above the night breeze.
The priest's gaze remained fixed on the water. "Truth lives in the spaces between what we see and what we do not. The goddess's threads weave in silence. Our task is to honor the pattern, lest it unravel."
Aarav shivered. The familiar comfort of the priest's words felt hollow, shadows pooling in his gut.
Retreating to the village square, he found Kabir and Ritwik waiting. The three boys slipped through the crowd toward a quiet corner where they could talk without eyes or ears.
"Did you hear about the old well outside the village?" Kabir whispered conspiratorially. "They say if you drop a coin and make a wish, Kala Ma will answer... but only if the festival spirits are pleased."
Ritwik smirked. "Sounds like a superstition."
"But some say it's more," Kabir said, eyes gleaming. "Like the goddess needs to be appeased this year—whether we like it or not."
Aarav met Ritwik's skeptical gaze and felt the solid weight of doubt. Yet somewhere beneath it, a shiver of unease grew.
*
Day two arrived unchanged—muggy and suffused with the scent of boiling jasmine tea, the low murmur of temple bells and morning prayers blending with the school's wakeup call.
Aarav found Diya arranging flowers by the altar within the school grounds. Her hands moved deftly but pauses marked by flashes of worry. Catching Aarav's eye, she whispered, "I saw the school warden near the warehouse last night. Something wasn't right."
"Warehouse?" Aarav echoed.
She nodded. "Closed for years, but faint light through the cracks. I tried to follow, but he walked off before I could ask."
Kabir joined them, cheeks flushed from a morning run, and the conversation turned to rumors of broken locks and whispered voices near the temple storeroom. Even older villagers hushed when mentioning recent misfortunes—cattle deaths, strange sounds at night.
But at school, life pressed on, relentless and oblivious. The teacher's voice droned through a math lesson, and Aarav felt himself caught between the familiar rhythms and the invisible tightening knot in his chest.
During recess, Aarav sat beneath the banyan tree, flipping pages of tattered notebooks filled with half-finished physics notes. The roots stretched like veins beside him, and across the courtyard, Kabir and Diya argued quietly about an upcoming cricket match.
Ritwik soon joined, staring across the schoolyard toward the temple with a cloudy expression. "Imagine if time really did fold back on itself," he said softly. "Like the stories say, trapped in a loop."
Aarav didn't answer, lost in the sensation that something was watching, waiting.
Inside the chemistry lab, the air was heavy with chemical scents and the faint hum of apparatus left ready for experiments never done. Aarav helped Ritwik set up for the next class, noticing a small shattered vial on the floor and a faint stain seeping beneath the cupboard.
"Probably spilled last week," Ritwik said, unaware of Aarav's lingering glance.
That evening, as dusk settled like a curtain, the village gathered near the temple for the opening night of Ratri Ranjani. Lamps flickered in rhythmic patterns, women's songs rose softly, and the priest chanted hymns peaches in his trembling voice.
Aarav stood beside Diya and Kabir, shoulders brushing, palms sweaty. His eyes swept the crowd, catching faces painted in festival powder, watching elders place offerings with solemn hands, feeling the weight beneath their smiles.
In the shadows, the banyan tree spread twisted arms heavy with vermillion-thread knotted as offerings. Aarav's breath caught. Something inside whispered in rhythms he could not trace.
He looked at his friends. Tomorrow was the last normal day.
The festival drums beat louder, but beneath their pulse, an undercurrent of menace stirred—silent and patient.