The wind had picked up overnight. By morning, it whispered through the old windowpanes like a sigh too tired to leave.
Nira hadn't slept much. The letter lay on the table beside her tea cup, the inked words replaying in her mind until they felt like echoes rather than memories.
The world you know is written- not in a stone, but in ink.
She traced the loops of her grandma's handwriting once more before folding it carefully and slipping it into her journal. She wasn't superstitious. She was a designer- a woman who believed in structure, in the clean precision of plans. But something about that letter refused to stay neatly inside reason.
By mid-morning, she was in the attic. The lawyer had said she could take anything personal before the cleaners arrived, and she wanted to gather her grandmother's old sketchbooks.
The attic door groaned open. Dust spiraled up like fog in sunlight.
It was trampled space- trunks, stacks of newspapers, and jars filled with buttons, feathers, and small polished stones. Amir had been a collector of the beautiful and the useless.
Nira smiled softly, "Still hiding worlds in jars, aren't you, Grandma?"
Near the far wall, behind an old grandfather clock, she noticed a faint shimmer- a giant of metal where the base met the floorboards. Kneeling, she tugged gently. The clock shifted with a tired creak, reveling a hollow space.
Inside, wrapped in brown paper, was a notebook.
It was bound in dark leather, cracked along the spine, and tied shut with a faded ribbon. The surface was embossed with something that looked like a small crescent moon.
Her pulsed quickened as she untied it.
The first page was blank except for a date- 12 June 2025. Tomorrow.
Nora frowned. She turned the page. Another date- 13 June 2025. Below it, neat handwriting filled the page:
"A sparrow will fly into the kitchen window.
The tea will spill.
You will remember this moment."
She blinked. The words were simple, almost childlike. Probably something Amaira had written decades age, she thought. Some kind of riddle, or poetry exercise. Still, she couldn't shake the chill that crawled up her arms.
She set the notebook aside and went back to sorting the boxes.
By evening, the memory of it had dulled- until the sound came.
A sharp thud.
Nirs turned. A small brown sparrow had struck the kitchen window and fluttered to the sill, dazed but alive.
Her tea cup- the one she'd set beside her elbow- toppled, splashing across the counter.
She froze.
The tea will spill.
Her breath caught in her throat. She stared at the notebook lying on the table- the same calm, unhurried script staring back at her.
Her phone buzzed suddenly, making her jump. It was Sera calling from the city.
"Nira! You sound weird. Everything okay?"
Nira hesitated, eyes still on the notebook. "Yeah….. just tired. I found some of grandma's old things."
"Bet that house still smells like rains and ghosts," Sera laughed. "You should come back soon before it eats you alive."
Nira forced a smile." Maybe tomorrow."
After the call, she wiped the counter clean and sat down again. She turned another page.
"A visitor will come— a man who knows the truth of ink."
Her hand trembled slightly as she closed the notebook. " No ," she murmured,"no more of this."
She slid it into her bag, locked the house, and went to bed.
But the thought wouldn't let her rest. The sparrow, the tea, the words.
In her dreams, she saw pages turning by themselves, and each page had her handwriting on it— not her grandmother's.
When the morning sun slipped through the curtains, the clock downstairs ticked alive again.
And then came the sound— a knock on the door.
A man's voice followed, calm and steady.
"Nira Devi? I think we need to talk...…. About a notebook."