Morning sunlight poured through the neem trees lining the boundary wall of Meeneshwari Public School, turning dew drops into tiny diamonds. The campus looked so normal — laughter, morning prayers, dusty football matches — that no one could’ve guessed what had happened in the old science block last night.
But for Aarav Sharma, normalcy was gone.
The words he had found in his diary — “Because you’re the only one who can set it right.” — kept flashing in his head like neon lightning. Every page of his school notebook suddenly felt like a possible ghostly messenger.
He sat at his desk, pretending to listen to Maths Sir, but his mind drifted far away — to that bracelet, the initials A.D. – R.M., and that fading whisper that still echoed in his ears.
“Mr. Aarav Sharma!”
The teacher’s booming voice snapped him back. Aarav jumped.
“Yes, Sir?”
“Could you please explain this theorem to the class, since you seem to be daydreaming about the meaning of life?”
The class giggled. Even Nisha Verma, sitting two benches behind, tried to hide a smile. Aarav stood up, fumbling with the chalk. “Uh… the theorem says that—uh—if two triangles are congruent…”
Rohit muttered, “You’re congruent with stupidity.”
A few laughs burst around. The teacher sighed. “Sit down, Mr. Sharma. You need divine help — not mathematical.”
If only he knew how true that was.
---
When the lunch bell rang, Aarav, Rohit, and Nisha sneaked to the school library — the quietest place in the building, where dust motes floated like tiny spirits in the sunlight.
Old wooden shelves lined the walls, stacked with years of forgotten reports, registers, and dusty yearbooks.
Nisha whispered, “The school records go back to 2008. Anaya Deshmukh disappeared in 2014, right?”
Rohit groaned. “Why are we doing this again? Can’t we just watch horror movies like normal teenagers instead of living one?”
“Because,” Aarav said softly, “she talked to me.”
That silenced them both.
They began searching through the old school magazines and photo albums, fingers leaving trails in the dust. The pages were full of smiling faces, farewell messages, and handwritten wishes — all from the years before they had even joined the school.
Finally, Nisha pulled out a thick blue-bound yearbook titled “Batch of 2014.”
“There,” she said, blowing dust off the cover.
They sat on the floor and flipped through the pages. The photographs were grainy but clear enough to see the school uniforms, the same classrooms, the same banyan tree that still stood outside.
Then Rohit pointed. “Look.”
Anaya Deshmukh — Science Stream, Class XII-B.
Her photo was small, black-and-white, but unmistakable. The same eyes. Calm. Intelligent. A faint smile that looked kind and a little sad even in the picture.
“She looks exactly like—” Rohit began.
“Like what we saw,” Nisha finished quietly.
Under the photo was a short caption:
> “Anaya Deshmukh – Brilliant mind, kind heart, a star of our school.”
Aarav stared at it for a long moment. His fingers traced the edge of her picture, feeling something deep stir within — not fear, not curiosity… but familiarity.
“I’ve seen her before,” he murmured.
Rohit frowned. “Of course you have. Yesterday. When she tried to kill us.”
“No,” Aarav said, shaking his head. “Before that. Somewhere else. She looks… familiar.”
Nisha looked thoughtful. “Could your parents have known her? Or maybe she was related to someone who worked here?”
Aarav didn’t answer. He turned to the next page — a class photograph of XII-B, with teachers standing behind rows of students.
And there — standing beside Anaya — was a boy with the same school uniform, smiling confidently. Underneath, the name read:
> Raghav Mehta – Head Boy.
Rohit blinked. “R.M. That’s the other initial on the bracelet.”
Nisha’s voice dropped to a whisper. “A.D. – R.M. It wasn’t just initials… it was theirs.”
Aarav’s chest tightened. A story was forming — one that felt too tragic to belong to school corridors.
Nisha turned the page. There was a short article titled “Inter-School Science Exhibition Accident.” The page was partly torn, but a few lines were visible:
> “During the late-night preparation for the exhibition… electrical short circuit in the chemistry lab… two students present… one missing, presumed…”
The rest of the paragraph was smudged.
Rohit gulped. “Presumed what? Dead?!”
Nisha frowned. “And who were the two students? Anaya and Raghav?”
Before Aarav could respond, a faint gust of cold air brushed past his ear. He froze.
The air around them shifted — suddenly cold, heavy. The pages of the yearbook fluttered on their own, stopping at one photograph near the end: a picture of the Science Trophy shelf. Behind it, barely visible, was a reflection — a faint outline of someone standing there who wasn’t supposed to be.
Aarav stared. “Look… behind the trophy.”
It was a silhouette — of a girl in the school uniform, head slightly tilted.
Nisha whispered, “That’s her. She’s… in the picture.”
As they watched, a drop of ink appeared on the page — out of nowhere — and slowly formed a word right over the photo.
> “Find Raghav.”
Rohit stumbled backward. “Okay, okay! Enough Scooby-Doo for today!”
But Aarav couldn’t look away. His pulse hammered in his ears.
“Raghav Mehta,” he said. “He must still be alive.”
Nisha nodded. “If he is, he’s the key. He might know what really happened that night.”
Rohit grabbed his bag. “And how exactly do you plan to find someone who left this school ten years ago? Ask the ghost for his address?”
Aarav closed the yearbook gently. “No. I’ll start with the records office. Maybe there’s a contact. If not, we’ll find another way.”
As they walked out of the library, Nisha looked back one last time. The yearbook lay open on the floor — and Anaya’s photo seemed different now.
Her faint smile looked… almost hopeful.
---
That evening, Aarav returned home early. His mother scolded him for not eating lunch properly, but he barely heard her. After dinner, he went straight to his room, placed the bracelet beside his diary, and whispered softly into the still air:
“Anaya… I’m trying. I’ll find him.”
The window rattled faintly, though there was no wind. The diary fluttered open on its own, to a blank page.
And new words began appearing in that same neat handwriting:
> “He’s closer than you think.”
Aarav’s breath caught in his throat.
He stared at the ink forming on its own.
> “He’s been waiting too.”
The final word underlined itself — almost like a heartbeat.
> “Hurry.”
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