The clock struck midnight, its chimes echoing through the stillness of the night. Krishna tossed and turned in his sleep, trapped in a nightmare that felt all too real. In the darkness, he could hear whispers, haunting and persistent, as if the shadows themselves were alive.
"From the shadows of your silence, I will emerge," a voice hissed, chilling him to the bone. He felt a weight pressing down on his chest, suffocating him, as a figure loomed closer, its intentions sinister.
Flashes of battle erupted in his mind—a grand castle shrouded in darkness, surrounded by monstrous beasts that howled with fury. He saw a group of cloaked figures gathered around a hidden person; their faces obscured but their intentions clear. They were preparing to unleash a terrible force, piecing together something long lost.
"Come to me," a deep voice echoed, and he felt an overwhelming sense of dread wash over him.
Suddenly, Krishna jolted awake, gasping for breath. Moonlight streamed through the window, illuminating the room. He turned his head slowly, his heart pounding, only to find a crow perched on the windowsill, its beady eyes fixed on him with an unsettling intensity. The crow seemed to know something he didn't, and an icy shiver ran down his spine.
He couldn't shake off the feeling that he was being watched.
In a moment of panic, he shouted, "Get away from me!"
At the sound of his voice, the crow took flight, its wings flapping violently as it vanished into the night, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. The commotion stirred his brothers from their sleep. They rushed to his side; concern etched on their faces.
"Krishna, what happened? Why do you look so terrified?" Alex asked, worry lacing his voice as he placed a comforting hand on Krishna's shoulder.
Krishna struggled to find his words, his voice barely a whisper. "I had a bad dream… someone was calling me. And that crow… it was watching me." His brow was slick with sweat, and he could still hear the echo of the voice lingering in his mind.
Just then, the orphanage warden burst into the room, her expression stern. "What's all this noise? It's the middle of the night! Back to bed, all of you! There's school in the morning!"
Despite their protests, the warden didn't wait for explanations, her authority casting a heavy shadow over them.
Krishna lay wide awake in the dark, his mind racing with the remnants of his nightmare. The shadows in his room felt suffocating, and the whispers from his dream echoed ominously in his ears. Fear had gripped him so tightly that sleep was a distant memory.
As dawn broke, his brother Alex gently nudged him awake, concern etched across his face. Krishna blinked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, but the exhaustion was evident. He looked up at Alex, who stood over him, a carry bag slung over one shoulder.
"You look terrible, Krishna. Why don't you take a day off from school?" Alex suggested, his voice laced with sympathy.
Krishna sighed, his voice barely above a whisper. "I can't. I have an exam today. If I miss it, my grades will suffer." Despite the heaviness in his chest and the shadows beneath his eyes, he couldn't bring himself to let his grades slip away.
After a quick bath that did little to refresh him, Krishna reluctantly joined his brothers and sisters for breakfast. The weight of fatigue hung over him like a storm cloud as they made their way to school.
Once in class, the words on the blackboard seemed to blur together, slipping through his mind like water through his fingers. No matter how hard he tried to focus, the remnants of his nightmare gnawed at him, clouding his thoughts.
The day dragged on, and as the final bell rang, Krishna felt a surge of relief wash over him. He trudged back toward the orphanage, the chill of the afternoon air doing little to shake off his unease.
But as he walked, he noticed a gathering of crows perched ominously on the trees lining the path. One, then another, until there seemed to be dozens, their beady eyes trained on him.
Panic surged within him, a visceral instinct that told him to flee. His heart raced and sweat broke out on his brow. He quickened his pace, the distant caws of the crows echoing in his mind like a death knell.
It felt as though the very air around him was thick with dread, urging him to run faster. With a sudden burst of adrenaline, he sprinted toward the orphanage, desperation driving him forward as if his life depended on it.
Krishna made his way through the hallway of the orphanage. The afternoon sun slanted through the high windows, scattering golden shards of light across the worn walls, yet the warmth did little to ease the cold weight pressing on his chest.
He pushed open the door to his room, seeking silence—only to find Ritu already there. She sat by the window, mending a torn bed sheet, her dark hair loosely tied back, strands glowing amber in the sunlight.
Ritu was one of the caretakers, gentle yet firm, the kind of soul who carried quiet strength in her eyes. She looked up as he entered, immediately sensing the storm behind his silence.
He hesitated at the door, eyes wide and haunted. "Ritu," he began, his voice trembling like a leaf caught in the wind, "I had the most horrible nightmare. I can't shake off the feeling that it means something."
Ritu's expression softened. She knelt beside him, bringing herself to his level so he wouldn't have to look up to speak. "Krishna, sweetheart," she said gently, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead, "it's just your imagination playing tricks on you — a bad dream, nothing more. Look at you; you're exhausted."
She offered a warm smile, the kind that had comforted him countless times before. "Wait right here. I'll bring you something to eat. You need to rest, and you can't face your fears on an empty stomach.
And remember," she added, her voice lowering to a motherly hush, "whenever you feel scared or low, you can come talk to me. I'm always here for you."
Something in her tone — that unwavering calm — eased the storm in Krishna's chest. He gave a small nod, his lips trembling into the faintest smile. "Can you… please stay with me until I fall asleep?" he asked, barely above a whisper, his voice heavy with the weight of unspoken fear.
Ritu's smile deepened. "Of course," she said simply. "I'm not going anywhere."
For Krishna, Ritu wasn't just a caretaker. She was home — the gentle constant in a world that had taken everything else away. She tucked the thin blanket around him, her fingers light against his arm, and hummed softly — a lullaby she used to sing when he was younger.
Within moments, the exhaustion that had clung to him since dawn began to pull him under. His breathing steadied, his eyes fluttering shut as he surrendered to sleep. Ritu lingered for a while, watching him, her heart softening with a quiet ache only a mother could understand.
But as she turned to leave, something flickered at the edge of her vision.
A shadow — brief but unmistakable — slid across the doorway, like a bird's wings cutting through the air. Her gaze darted to the window, where sunlight still poured in. Nothing. Only stillness.
A chill crept up her spine. She glanced once more at Krishna, sleeping soundly now, then shook her head as if to chase away her unease. "It's just the light," she murmured to herself, stepping out quietly.
"Ritu!" Krishna's voice rang out, panic lacing his tone.
Rushing back into the room, Ritu found him drenched in sweat, gasping for breath. "What's wrong, Krishna?" she asked, kneeling beside him.
"Someone… there's a crow… a castle…" He babbled, his words tumbling out in a jumbled rush, fear gripping him anew.
Ritu wrapped her arms around him, holding him close as his small body shook with tears. "Shh, it's okay. Calm down," she whispered soothingly. After several minutes, Krishna's sobs began to quiet, but he kept repeating the same frantic phrases.
As Ritu comforted him, a flicker of doubt crossed her mind. Was this just the imagination of a frightened twelve-year-old, or was there something deeper at play? She decided to stay with him, determined not to leave him alone in such a state.
An hour later, Alex and the other children returned to their room. Seeing Ritu by Krishna's side, Alex raised an eyebrow in concern. "Ritu, what's going on? Why are you with Krishna?"
"Krishna is going through a rough time," she explained, her brow furrowed.
"Did he say anything about the crow?" Alex asked, the tension evident on his face.
Ritu nodded solemnly. "Yes, he did."
"What's happening to him?" Alex's voice was tinged with worry.
"Don't worry," Ritu assured him, trying to keep her own fears at bay. "He just needs some rest. Let's all sit with him until he wakes up."
With a heavy sigh, Ritu excused herself and made her way to the head of the orphanage, Mandeep Singh. "Mandeep, I need to talk to you about Krishna," she said, her voice laced with urgency.
Mandeep listened attentively. "What's the matter?"
"I think Krishna's really struggling. He had a nightmare and now he's been acting strangely. I'm worried about him."
"Okay, Ritu," Mandeep replied, nodding. "I'll call the doctor to check on him."
The doctor arrived shortly after, examining Krishna carefully. After a thorough check-up and lab reports, he turned to Mandeep. "Everything seems normal physically, but it's concerning that he's behaving differently.
If he keeps talking about dreams and fears, it might be wise to refer him to a psychiatrist. There could be a psychological issue at play."
Ritu's heart sank at the doctor's words. She knew Krishna was troubled, but the idea of him needing more help made her stomach twist with anxiety.
For two nights straight, the darkness around Krishna seemed to grow heavier — as if the night itself had learned his name. Each time he closed his eyes, the same nightmare seized him in its cruel grip: the whispering voice, the looming castle, and the crow watching from a blood-red sky.
He would jolt awake drenched in sweat; his sheets twisted like vines around his trembling body. His breaths came in sharp, uneven gasps, the echo of that voice still clawing at the edges of his mind.
Each morning, his strength waned a little more — the spark in his eyes dimmed, replaced by shadows that refused to leave.
The other children began to notice too. They whispered among themselves at breakfast, stealing worried glances when Krishna's hand trembled as he reached for his glass of milk. Even Alex, always the steady one, could no longer hide his concern.
By the third night, Mandeep could no longer ignore the growing unease that had gripped the orphanage. The air itself felt different — heavy, watchful, as though the walls had begun to listen.
Krishna's screams had become a nightly occurrence, his nightmares spreading fear like a contagion among the children. Sleep came uneasily for everyone now. Even the bravest of them hesitated to pass by his door after dusk.
Mandeep sat in his dimly lit office, the glow of a single lamp casting long, restless shadows across the room. His fingers drummed against the desk as he spoke, frustration and worry etched deep into his face. "This can't go on," he said finally, his voice taut. "We need to get him help — professional help."
Ritu stood silently nearby, her hands clasped together. She looked exhausted — not from work, but from nights spent keeping vigil beside a boy who seemed to be slipping further away. Her eyes met Mandeep's, and she gave a quiet nod.
The next morning, the decision was made. A psychiatrist from the city hospital was called, and arrangements were set for Krishna to be examined. As Ritu helped the frail boy into the car, she felt his hand trembling in hers. He looked so small then, swallowed by his oversized jacket, his gaze unfocused and distant.
At the hospital, the psychiatrist sat across from Krishna, looking him over with careful eyes. "Everything seems normal," the doctor finally said after the examination. He leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen against his notebook.
"Maybe he watched a scary movie, or there's some childhood trauma resurfacing. Has he ever had any experiences with birds? Crows, specifically?"
Ritu hesitated, her eyes distant as she searched her memory. "When he was about a year old," she began slowly, "a crow attacked him. It pecked him just behind the ear. There was so much blood—everyone panicked. But he was just a baby… I don't think he remembers any of it."
She paused, frowning slightly, as another memory stirred. "Though, when he was growing up, he used to talk about an owl—a white one. He said it showed him the way home whenever he got lost."
Her voice softened, a faint tremor of nostalgia weaving through it. "He would draw it sometimes, you know? Perched on a branch under the moonlight. He always said, 'The owl watches over me.' I thought it was just a child's fancy… but lately, I'm not so sure."
The doctor nodded, scribbling in his notes. "That could be it—a subconscious trigger. For now, I'll prescribe something mild to help with his anxiety and sleep. Let's see if this settles down."
The car turned a corner, and as the orphanage came into view, something caught Mandeep's eye. An Owl perched on the highest branch of the old mango tree, its black feathers glistening under the fading sunlight. Its dark, beady eyes seemed to follow the car as it pulled into the driveway.
Mandeep's grip tightened on the steering wheel. The air felt heavier. He watched silently as Ritu helped Krishna out of the car, and they made their way inside. The Owl remained, unmoving, observing.
He feels now that this was no ordinary problem. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
Inside the office, Mandeep called all the staff together—wardens, caretakers, everyone who had seen the strange occurrences. His face was pale, his voice low with tension.
"When did all of this begin?" Mandeep asked, his eyes scanning the room.
One of the wardens, a middle-aged woman with tired eyes, spoke up. "It started on the mid night of the 11th, sir. 12-12-2012."
The room fell into an uncomfortable silence. Ritu, standing at the back, dull and silent. now, she could feel something wasn't right. Mandeep took a deep breath, his face drawn in thought.
"I think I know who we need to inform about this," Mandeep said, his voice heavy, as if the weight of his words would change everything.
The Next day, Krishna returned from school, his bag slung over his shoulder, exhaustion etched on his face. As he approached the orphanage, he noticed a small car parked outside—a bright yellow Nano. He paused, curiosity prickling at him.
"Whose car is that?" Krishna asked the warden, who was standing by the entrance.
"An old man's," the warden replied, scratching his head. "He's come to visit Mandeep."
Krishna nodded absently and headed toward his room. When Krishna entered the room, he saw Mandeep, Ritu, and an elderly man sitting together. The man's presence exuded warmth and calm, his soft gaze resting on Krishna as he entered.
Ritu smiled and called him over. "Krishna, come here. Someone has come to meet you."
The old man stood up slowly, his movements deliberate and gentle. He handed Krishna a box wrapped in simple, elegant paper. "This is for you," he said softly, his voice deep and reassuring.
Krishna looked at Mandeep and Ritu for approval. They both nodded, encouraging him to take the gift. Hesitantly, Krishna accepted it, then turned to the old man, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. "I feel like I've seen you before," he said, his voice filled with curiosity.
The old man chuckled quietly, his expression humble. "Perhaps on the news," he replied with a gentle smile.
Krishna's eyes widened. "Do you come on TV?"
"Sometimes," the old man said, his voice soothing and kind.
"Are you an actor?" Krishna asked, a hint of wonder in his tone.
The old man smiled again, shaking his head lightly. "No, I'm not an actor. But I suppose, in some ways, I have a role to play." He looked at Krishna warmly. "I look after this orphanage, Krishna. And all of you here—you are my children."
Krishna frowned slightly and looked at Ritu. "No, I'm Ritu's child," he said, his voice protective.
The old man chuckled, the sound warm and reassuring. "Yes, you are," he said kindly. "And Ritu has done a wonderful job taking care of you."
The old man's tone shifted, becoming slightly more serious but still gentle. His eyes shimmered with quiet resolve as he addressed Krishna. "Do you wish to know who you are Krishna and who are your parents?" he asked, his tone gentle yet insistent.
Krishna hesitated, doubt playing across his features. "I do," he replied softly, uncertainty mingling with longing in his voice.
"The truth is waiting, but you must come with me to find it," the old man said calmly, his voice carrying the weight of secrets.
Krishna hesitated, glancing at Ritu and Mandeep. Their nods reassured him but doubt still flickered in his eyes. "I don't want to leave Ritu," he said, his voice breaking slightly.
The old man crouched down to meet Krishna at eye level, his expression full of understanding. "I would never want to take you away from Ritu. But there are things you need to know, things that will help you to overcome this nightmare. This is for your own safety, and for your future."
Krishna looked down, conflicted. "I don't want to go," he shouted, turning away and running from the room, tears welling in his eyes.
Mandeep sighed heavily; his voice strained. "Krishna, come here."
But the old man raised a gentle hand, stopping him. "Let him be," he said softly, watching the door with a thoughtful expression. "He's still young, and this is a lot for him to take in. We'll let him come to us when he's ready."
Turning to Ritu, the old man's voice softened even further. "Ritu, beta(dear), I leave it in your hands. When the time is right, help him understand.