WHISPERS OF THE SHADOWS

The light streaming through the thin curtains was warm and golden, a stark contrast to the weight Ayaan carried within him. He woke not to the sharp cry of the Fajr adhan, but to the soft hum of morning already in full bloom. The clock on the wall ticked close to 9:00 AM. His body still felt heavy from the strange events of the night before—the envelope, the symbol, and the feeling that something unseen had brushed past him in the darkness.

He sat on the edge of his bed, rubbing his face with both hands, trying to pull himself out of the remnants of disturbed sleep. There had been no peace in dreams—only flashes of whispers and shadows, none clear enough to remember. As he stood, he glanced at the letter still resting on the corner table, untouched.

Not today, he thought. Not yet.

---

The small garden behind the house had once been his mother's pride. Even now, untamed and overgrown in places, it radiated a gentle sort of memory. Ayaan stepped onto the grass barefoot, wincing slightly at the coolness of the dew. The sun filtered through the branches of the mango tree in the corner, dappling light over the stone path that led to the center.

He took a seat on the old wooden bench beneath the neem tree, a book in his lap that he never opened. Instead, he tilted his head back and closed his eyes. The air carried the scent of roses and wet soil. Somewhere, a koel sang. And for a moment, everything felt like it used to—before the silence fell over this home, before loneliness stretched its arms into every corner.

A sharp voice pulled him from his stillness.

"Beta Ayaan! Are you there?"

He turned to see his neighbor, Amma Razia, peeking from over the boundary wall. Her scarf was loosely pinned and her hands were dusted with flour.

"Yes, Amma?" he replied, standing.

"My bulb in the storeroom has fused again. Your uncle always fixed it, but my knees—Allah knows—are not what they were. Can you help?"

Ayaan smiled, grateful for the distraction. "Of course. Give me a moment."

---

The storeroom was cramped, filled with baskets and tins from a time that smelled of cumin and timeworn books. Ayaan ducked under cobwebs and balanced on a creaky stool to replace the bulb. As he stepped down, something near the back shelf caught his eye—a small stone tile, dark as ash, with a crescent and an eye carved into it.

He felt his chest tighten.

"Amma, where did you get this?" he asked, holding it up.

Razia squinted. "What is it? Oh, that? It's been here for years. Your great-grandfather gave it to my husband long ago, I think. Some kind of charm, they said. I thought it was yours."

Ayaan didn't respond. He turned it over, but there was nothing on the back. The same strange symbol. The same feeling of being watched.

"Keep it if you want," Amma Razia added kindly. "It's been gathering dust here."

He slipped it into his pocket.

---

The walk back home felt longer than usual. As he passed the old jamun tree by the fence, the world seemed to still. The birds had stopped singing. The wind died. And under the shadow of the tree, for a fleeting moment, he saw a figure.

It was tall and still, cloaked in shadow, unmoving.

Ayaan's breath hitched. He blinked—and it was gone.

He shook his head hard, like trying to rattle loose a nightmare.

---

That afternoon, while rummaging through a cupboard in the drawing room, Ayaan found a leather-bound book tucked behind a row of old photo albums. It was his great-grandfather's journal—its pages yellowed, the ink faded but still legible.

He flipped through it slowly, each word stitched with care, as though written for someone far in the future. Toward the center of the book, one passage was underlined:

"Those who called them in light never saw the dark. Only the forgotten remember the truth."

Below it, written in rougher handwriting:

"Return to the roots. Return to the graves. Truths are buried, not lost."

Ayaan ran his fingers over the page, the ink slightly raised. His thoughts were a storm.

He fetched his own journal from the side drawer—brown, with fraying edges—and sat at his desk.

> Journal Entry

Date: April 19

I keep hearing things I can't explain. Seeing shadows where no one stands.

The symbol from the letter appeared again today—on a stone in Amma Razia's storeroom. It's real. It follows.

I think it's time I go back. To the roots.

Visit the graves—my parents, their parents, my great-grandparents.

Maybe if I stand where they're buried, I'll understand what they were trying to protect. Or who they were protecting me from.

He paused. The pen hovered over the page.

Then he added another note beneath:

> Maybe it's also time I visit Uncle Faheem. He was close to Baba and Dadajaan. If anyone knows what this is about, it's him.

He closed the journal.

Outside, the sky turned the color of rust.

---

That night, Ayaan fell asleep earlier than expected, the fatigue of the day weighing him down. But sleep didn't bring rest.

He found himself standing under an enormous tree, its branches thick and twisted like veins across the night sky. He was barefoot, small—maybe five or six years old. The wind rustled the leaves gently.

"Ayaan," a voice called.

He turned. No one.

"Ayaan," it called again—this time from beneath the tree.

He stepped closer. The tree's roots rose like old bones from the earth. Beneath its shadow, there was a hollow.

The voice came again, but it wasn't frightening. It was familiar. Soft. Like a lullaby hummed through tears.

"You promised..."

He crouched to look closer, but a gust of wind blew sand into his eyes. When he opened them, the tree was on fire. Silent, burning without smoke.

He woke with a scream lodged in his throat, breath ragged, chest drenched in sweat.

The room was still.

But from outside the window, where the garden met the fence, the jamun tree swayed.

There was no wind. But a shadow just like he saw in his dream not long ago.