Devendra walked slowly down the school corridor, each step echoing unnaturally in the nearly empty hallway. Even though his friends had gone ahead to their classes, he lingered, feeling the weight of silence pressing against his chest. The air smelled faintly of chalk and disinfectant, but beneath it, there was always that lingering unease—the faint memory of something unseen, whispering, watching.
His hands trembled slightly as he adjusted the straps of his backpack. He tried to focus on mundane things—the ticking of the classroom clock, the squeak of shoes on the floor—but the moment he shut out the world, the shadow came back. Not in front of him this time, not yet, but a presence he could feel behind his eyes, crawling across his mind like frost.
"Devendra?" a soft voice called. It was one of his classmates, Mira, reaching out a hand. "You've been quiet all morning… are you… okay?"
He swallowed hard, nodding. "Yeah… yeah, I'm fine. Just… tired, that's all." His voice cracked slightly at the end, betraying the calm he tried to show.
As he walked to his classroom, he noticed his reflection in the window. His hair, now almost completely white at the edges from stress and age, framed a face that looked far older than ten. And yet, his body was still that of a small boy. The dissonance made his stomach twist, and he clenched his fists. I'm… me… but I'm not. How long has it been? How many times have I died in my dreams? How many lifetimes have I lived in that other place?
In class, Devendra sat quietly, trying to focus on the teacher's voice. But outside, the sun poured into the windows, turning everything gold—and yet in that light, he could still see the flicker of red behind the brightness. The memory of the crimson moon, the silent village, the girl laughing… it lingered, persistent, a shadow he could not shake.
When the bell rang for lunch break, Devendra hesitated. Everyone headed outside, chatting, laughing, carrying food in their hands, but he lingered at his desk, staring at his half-eaten sandwich. The room seemed to stretch longer, the walls bending slightly, and the air felt heavier with every breath.
He remembered sitting at home days ago, alone, watching the fridge glow with the leftovers his mom had prepared. That warmth, that simple act of care… it should have comforted him. But even then, he could feel it—the cold fingers brushing against his shoulder, the whisper curling around his ear, You cannot escape me.
He closed his eyes briefly, trying to force the memory away. But the more he tried, the stronger it came back. Why am I still thinking of her? Why do I feel her even when she's not there?
Devendra opened his eyes and looked around. The other kids' laughter sounded distant, muffled, as if coming through water. He felt like a fish struggling for air, like he had been severed from the rest of the world. And in that silence, he realized—he was remembering. Slowly, painfully, he was beginning to recall… but it wasn't the memory he wanted. It was her.
I can't… I can't think of her. Not now… not ever…
Yet the images came anyway. The white room. The laughter. The chase. The endless nights of fear and pain. He gripped the edge of his desk, knuckles white, teeth grinding. Even the sunlight outside couldn't touch him.
For a moment, the world was still. Devendra's heart pounded. And then, just as quickly, a small hand rested gently on his shoulder. Mira. "Devendra… it's okay. You're here. You're safe. You're not alone."
His breathing faltered. Part of him wanted to run, wanted to escape before she could see the trembling beneath his skin. But another part… a quieter part… clung to her presence. Slowly, painfully, he nodded. I am here. For now… I am here.
Outside, the sky was turning a faint orange. The day was normal again, but Devendra knew it would not stay that way for long. Somewhere in the shadows, she was waiting. Watching. Planning. And he… he was slowly, torturously, learning to live with it.
Even if just for a moment.