The rain started just after midnight.
Not a soft drizzle or gentle rhythm. It came down like it was trying to bury something. Like the sky was tired of holding back secrets.
I couldn't sleep.
Not because of the thunder — but because the silence between them was louder.
That's when I heard it.
A faint thud. Then a scrape. Then another.
Coming from beneath the floorboards.
I froze in bed, pulse in my ears. It was the old storage room under the staircase — the one we hadn't used in years.
The one Dad always locked up after the accident.
I got out of bed, careful not to wake anyone. Each creak of the floor felt like it echoed across lifetimes.
I grabbed the small key from the top drawer. It had rust on its teeth, but I remembered where it fit.
The lock turned with a reluctant click.
I opened the wooden panel and was met with a wall of cold, stale air.
Dust danced in my flashlight beam. The room was tiny — just enough space to crouch. Old cardboard boxes, a rusted tricycle, half a photo album. Familiar. Harmless.
Until I noticed the edge of a notebook poking out from under a broken suitcase.
I reached for it.
The first page had my handwriting.
But I'd never written it.
"If you're reading this, it's already begun."
My hands trembled as I flipped through the pages.
Every entry felt like me — my voice, my thoughts — but they described things I hadn't done yet. Places I hadn't been. Conversations I hadn't had.
One page in particular stopped me cold:
March 20th — Harish will lie. You'll want to believe him. Don't.
Today was March 20th.
I shut the notebook, heart pounding in my throat.
The next morning, I couldn't look at Harish the same way.
He waved to me in class, same grin, same warm familiarity. But I kept hearing the words from the journal echoing:
He will lie.
We sat together during lunch.
"You okay?" he asked, biting into a samosa. "You've been weird since yesterday."
I swallowed my suspicion. "Just tired."
Then I asked, "Do you remember March 23rd?"
He paused. Blinked. "Why would I?"
Because I remembered.
It was the day he told me everything was fine… just before it all burned.
Just before the betrayal.
Back home, I hid the notebook under my bed. Locked the storage room again.
But I couldn't unsee what I saw. Couldn't unread what was written.
And then came the second text.
From the same unknown number.
"Truth is heavier than lies. Be careful what you carry next."
I stared at the screen.
Rain still pelted the window. The power buzzed softly in the background.
And somewhere beneath the house, something was still breathing.
Watching.
Waiting.