The first light of dawn crawled across the floor, slow and shy.
Ayaan sat alone in the hall — where he'd stayed all night.
The others had eventually gone to their rooms, one by one.
But he hadn't moved.
He didn't want to go upstairs.
Not because of fear — at least, that's what he told himself.
But something about the silence that followed him back from that road...
It didn't feel like it had left.
He stood up slowly, bones stiff from staying still too long.
The hallway lights were off now.
Curtains drawn.
The kind of quiet that feels too aware of you.
Upstairs waited his room.
It wasn't just a space anymore.
It felt like a door left open too long.
Like it had let something in while he was gone.
He climbed the stairs.
Each step heavier than it should've been.
And as he reached the top, he paused.
His door — half open.
He knew he'd left it closed.
Still, he pushed it open.
And walked in.
Everything was where he left it.
Mostly.
The windows were shut, but the air inside moved — as if someone had just walked across it.
Not cold.
Just unsettled.
He ignored it.
Brushed his teeth.
Changed.
Laid down.
Sleep came in patches — broken, restless.
And in those tiny slices of sleep... something waited.
He didn't see it.
But he felt it.
Like someone standing just behind a curtain, breathing when you're trying not to.
When he woke again, the sun had shifted.
Late morning.
He checked his phone.
Blank screen.
Still no signal.
And his battery?
It had drained completely.
Weird — but not enough to panic.
He shrugged it off.
But as he sat up, something caught his eye near the door.
A folded paper.
Plain. No name. No handwriting on the outside.
He picked it up.
Opened it.
Inside — just one sentence:
"The border wasn't meant to be crossed."
No signature.
No clue how it got there.
No sound of footsteps that delivered it.
Just the words.
He walked out of the room.
Down the hall.
To the living room — where his brother was now scrolling through his phone like nothing had happened.
"Did anyone come here this morning?" Ayaan asked.
His brother looked up. "Nope. Why?"
"Nothing," Ayaan lied.
But as he turned back, he saw it again.
Mud prints.
Thin. Like bare feet.
Starting from the staircase.
Ending at his room.
But no one else had been up there.
He knew what the prints meant.
Not who left them.
But what they confirmed.
Whatever crossed that line…
Had followed no rules.