The digital clock on the wall blinked 2:01 AM.
Riya hadn't moved since the message appeared. The line of text glowed like a threat stitched into the silence.
"You are not alone."
She turned slowly toward the hallway, her breath caught between logic and panic. No sound now. No one visible. But the weight of a gaze lingered—unseen but certain, like the pressure before a thunderclap.
She snapped the laptop shut.
Too late.
The screen flickered just before the lid met the base. Not a shutdown—an upload. One quick line blinked across the bottom corner of the screen in a font too small for most eyes. But Riya knew.
"Transmission initiated."
Her hand trembled. It wasn't over. It was just beginning
She stood in the kitchen moments later, her fingers numb as she poured coffee into a chipped ceramic mug. She didn't drink it. The steam rising from the cup felt useless. What she needed wasn't warmth—it was answers. Or maybe absolution.
The file had been dated 02/11/22—the night of the fire. The night Aarav disappeared.
Her brother had been gone for three years. Declared dead. Case closed.
But he had sent that message.
She turned back toward the study. The laptop sat innocently, black and silent again.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number
1 New Message
"You shouldn't have reopened the file."
"Time is running out."
Riya dropped the phone. Across the street, in the mirror-dark window of the abandoned building, a red light blinked once. Then again. A slow pulse. Watching.