We went back to our town a few days later. Not because it felt safe. Because staying away didn’t change anything. The road looked the same.
Shops were still open.
People still walked around.
Bikes still passed by.
But the air felt thinner.
Not lighter.
Just stretched. Like something heavy had been pressing on it.
Our house was exactly how we left it.
Door locked.
Windows fine.
No damage.
Inside, everything felt too clean.
Not fresh.
Empty.
My room had no drawings. No scratches. No fog on the mirror. No strange marks on the wall. Just blank space. It didn’t feel peaceful. It felt finished. Like something had already taken what it needed.
That night, I slept in my old bed.
No footsteps.
No whispers.
No pressure on my chest.
Just silence. But the silence felt heavy. Like the room was holding its breath.
In the morning, my mother made tea like always. She didn’t ask questions. I didn’t answer any. Some things felt better left unsaid.
I went to school alone. The gate was open. The corridor was quiet.
No shouting.
No running.
No noise.
Arun’s desk was still there.
Empty.
Dust on the surface. But his sketchbook was on the table.
Closed.
I touched it.
The cover felt warm.
Not hot.
Just warm.
Inside, there was only one drawing.
Not a person.
Not a room.
The whole city.
From above.
Tall shapes stood everywhere.
On bridges.
On rooftops.
Near hospitals.
Beside busy roads.
And in the middle, something darker pressed outward. Not tall like the others.
Wide.
Heavy.
No face.
No shape.
Just pressure. There were no words. But I understood. Arun wasn’t drawing people anymore. He wasn’t needed. The drawings didn’t need him. I closed the book and left.
That afternoon, I went to Arun’s house. The gate was open. Inside, everything felt hollow.
No papers.
No pencils.
No smell of ink.
Just empty space and dust.
In his room, there was only one chair. Right in the middle.
I sat down.
The air felt thicker.
Not colder.
Not warmer.
Just heavier. Like something was standing too close. I heard his voice. Not clearly. Like it was coming through a wall.
“Don’t let it finish,” he said.
Nothing else.
No explanation.
No warning.
Just that.
The room felt empty again.
I stood up and left.
That night, the drawings came back. Not in my room. Not in the house.
Outside.
On walls.
On shutters.
On broken gates.
On closed shop doors.
All of them showed the city. Tall shapes everywhere. That darker pressure spreading outward. People walked past them like posters. Some even stopped to read them.
No one reacted.
I didn’t walk past.
I stood there.
I looked.
The shapes near me stopped moving.
Not frozen.
Watching.
My head hurt.
My chest felt tight.
But I didn’t look away. The air felt heavier around me. Like it didn’t want me to stand there. I stayed anyway.
That night, I dreamed of doors.
Not one.
Many.
All slightly open. All leading somewhere dark.
No shapes.
No shadows.
Just space.
Empty space waiting to be filled.
When I woke up, my room felt smaller.
Not in size.
In feeling.
The next day, the news said strange shadows were appearing around the city. They called it “light problems.” They said it was temporary.
I knew better.
That afternoon, I walked through the market.
People talked.
Shops sold food.
Kids laughed.
But the tall shapes were there too.
Near corners.
Behind stalls.
Beside narrow alleys.
Not attacking.
Not moving.
Just waiting. And the waiting felt louder than noise.
When I reached home, the front door was unlocked. I never leave it unlocked. Inside, nothing was missing. Nothing was broken. But my room felt used again. On my wall, there was a new drawing.
Not of a person.
Not of a room.
Just the city.
Closer this time.
The dark pressure had spread. No words were written. None were needed.
That night, I stood by the window. The road was quiet. But the shadows were not. One by one, the tall shapes turned slightly toward my house. They didn’t move closer. They just noticed me.
My head hurt.
My chest felt tight.
But I didn’t look away.
This wasn’t about fear anymore. It wasn’t about running. Something was trying to make space. Arun had been the first door.
I wasn’t going to be the next.
