The morning fog had not yet lifted.
From the window, the valley below looked half-dreamed— blurred outlines of rooftops and trees floating in milk-white air.
Nira stood frozen near the door.
The knock came again, softer this time.
"Who is it?" She asked.
A pause. Then a man's voice came: calm, low, and strangely familiar.
"My name id Arian. I was a student of Amaira Devi. I think she left something behind for both of us."
Nira hesitated before opening the door.
The man who stood there looked travel-worn in his early thirties, dark hair slightly disheveled, eyes sharp but kind. He held himself with quiet confidence, like someone who had been chasing answers for too long.
"I am sorry for intruding," he said, stepping back slightly, palms open. "I saw the lights last night. I did not except anyone to be here."
Nora's voice was cautious "you said you know my grandma?"
He nodded,"a long time ago, she used to talk about her research—— about patterns in written timelines. I helped her with some of the data analysis."
"Research?" Nira frowned,"she was a writer, not a scientist."
"Both," Arian said. "She studied what she called temporal inscriptions—— how thoughts written at certain moments could influence later events."
Nira folded her arms." Sound poetic."
"or dangerous," he replied.
The word hung in the air like a shadow.
Arian's eyes drifted past her—— to the table where the old notebook lay,"you found it."
Nira followed his gaze and instinctively stepped infant of it,"found what?"
"The tomes of echoes," he said softly,"that's what she Called it. A prototype—— one of three. Each linked to a timeline."
Nira's stomach tightened,"it's just an old journal."
He smiled faintly," did the sparrow come?"
The words stopped her breadth. She didn't answer his question but her silence was more than any other answer.
"I thought so," he murmured,"that's how it starts. Small predictions, small coincidences. But the more you read, the stronger the pattern gets. The ink learns you."
"The ink learns me?" She repeated, almost laughing—— except her throat felt too dry.
Arian stepped little closer and his voice lowered, As if the walls themselves were listening. " Every word in that notebooks reacts to you. It's not foretelling the future, Nira. It's rewriting it—— one event at a time."
Nira took a step back," you sound insane."
"Maybe," he said simply,"but your grandmother thought so too, at first."
He handed her a folded piece of paper. The ink was smudged, old—— but she recognized Amaira's handwriting instantly.
"If he comes, listen. But never let him write."
Nira looked up sharply." What does that mean?"
Arian's expression was unreadable. "It means you grandmother knew I'd return."
A silence filled the room— thick with something unspoken.
Outside, the wind shifted, brushing the curtains. The notebook on the table fluttered open by itself. Both of them turned to look.
A new entry had appeared on the first blank page, the ink still glistening wet.
3:47 p.m. ——— the stranger warns her, but she doesn't believe him.
Nira stared at it, heart pounding,"did you do that?"
Arian shook his head slowly. "No," he said," you did."
That night, Nira couldn't eat. She sat on the balcony as the sun sank behind the hills, the notebook on her lap.
Each word seems alive—— shifting slightly under the dying light.
She ran her fingers over the cover, whispering," what are you?"
The clock chimed seven. A gentle breeze passed, and for a moment, she swore she heard her grandmother's voice again—— faint, like it was speaking through water:
"Ink remembers what we try to forget."
Nira closed the book and pressed it against her chest, her pulse loud in her ears.
The prediction had come true again
And this time she wasn't sure she wanted to know what the next page said.