THE FORGOTTEN UNSEEN COMPANIONS

The sunlight had grown aggressive, almost piercing, as it poured through the heavy curtains that did little to block its intensity. The warmth clung to the room like a fever. Ayaan shifted under his blanket, the fabric damp with sweat, as a dull ache pulsed behind his eyes.

His limbs felt like they weighed double, and for a moment, he couldn't remember if he had gone to bed last night… or if he had simply blacked out.

He sat up slowly, groaning as the world spun for a brief second before steadying. His throat was dry. The clock on the bedside table read 12:46 PM.

"Zohar already…" he mumbled.

Something was wrong.

He blinked, trying to brush off the lingering fog in his mind. There was a memory—no, a dream—that clung just behind his eyes. It teased him with flashes: a tree, laughter, someone calling his name. But each time he tried to hold onto it, it slipped away like water through his fingers.

"Ayaan…"

That voice. A child's voice? It had been in the dream… or had it been real?

His heart skipped as a cold ripple moved down his spine.

Ayaan swung his legs off the bed and rubbed his face. The house was eerily silent, thick with a kind of stillness that pressed against his skin. He used to enjoy quiet mornings—or in this case, nearly afternoons—but today, the silence felt like something was watching.

The room still bore the scent of an old, long-burned candle. He didn't remember lighting one recently. There were smudges on the mirror across from him that hadn't been there last night, as if small fingers had pressed against it and slid downward.

He didn't dwell on it.

Instead, he rose and headed to the bathroom, splashing cold water onto his face. The mirror above the sink fogged slightly even though there was no steam.

He wiped it with a towel and stared at his reflection.

His eyes looked sunken, more tired than they should have after a full night's rest. His skin looked pale under the fluorescent light, like he hadn't stepped outside in days.

"Snap out of it," he told himself.

He forced himself to shower, dress in fresh clothes—an old grey T-shirt and cotton pants—and stepped into the hallway.

That same silence followed him.

It wasn't the peaceful, comforting quiet of a home. This felt… loaded. Like the house was holding its breath.

Something was missing. He just didn't know what was missing.

The ache in his head refused to ease. Ayaan walked barefoot through the hallway, the polished wooden floor cold under his feet. He could've stayed in, returned to his work, but there was something gnawing at him from inside. That dream, that voice—it clung to him like a shadow.

The house felt too tight, like the walls were inching closer.

He needed air.

Sliding the old iron bolt free, Ayaan opened the backdoor and stepped outside into the pale sunlight. The warmth did little to calm the cold sensation curling inside his chest. His garden, though overgrown and choked with weeds, had a wild beauty to it. Tangled vines framed the walls. The stone path, worn and uneven, still held echoes of childhood footsteps.

The moment he stepped onto the soil, a strange calm fell over him—not comforting, but more like the quiet before something moves.

He walked the path slowly, fingers brushing against tall grass and broken flower stems, until he found himself standing near the large neem tree that had towered over the garden for decades. Its bark was dark and twisted, its branches like outstretched fingers reaching into the sky.

A cool breeze stirred the leaves, and with it came a sound—so faint, he almost thought he imagined it.

> "Ayaan..."

He turned around sharply.

Nothing.

The wind died. The leaves stopped rustling, but the silence that followed felt intentional, as though everything had paused to listen. His eyes scanned the garden—no sign of anyone, no children playing in nearby houses, not even a bird in the trees.

He took a step back.

Then another step.

But just as he turned around to leave—

> "Ayaan..."

This time it was clearer. A soft whisper, familiar in a way that made his heart seize.

It sounded like it had come from the tree.

He looked up slowly.

The branches swayed slightly, and for the briefest moment—he swore he saw something perched high up, watching him. It wasn't a bird, or any creature that belonged here. It was small. Shadowy. Still.

And then—gone.

He stared, his breath shallow, legs frozen. The air around him had shifted—cooler, heavier. The wind picked up again, brushing past his ear like breath.

> "You forgot. But we did not."

"Don't keep us waiting here"

Aayan staggered back. The voice was so close, as if it had been inside his head.

Then—laughter.

Soft, high-pitched, and distant… like a child playing far off in the yard.

Except there were no children in sight.

His skin erupted in goosebumps.

Not waiting to hear it again, he turned around and made his way back toward the house. But even as he stepped away from the tree, something in him pulled toward it. Like he'd stood under that tree before… many times.

The faint scent of dirt and something faintly sweet followed him back to the door.

And just before he stepped inside, he glanced back one last time.

The neem tree stood tall and still.

But the shadows underneath it… were longer than they should've been.

Ayaan shut the garden door behind him, locking it with more force than necessary.

The air inside the house felt warmer, but heavier too, like the house had exhaled while he was away—and not in relief.

He ran a hand down his face, still shaken by the voice in the garden. It couldn't have been real. Maybe the heat, the lack of proper sleep, the strange fog in his head... Maybe it was just in his mind.

And yet…

He moved through the hallway slowly, glancing up at the old portraits lining the walls. Their faces, weathered by time, seemed to look a little more vivid today. Or maybe it was just the afternoon sun playing tricks through the dusty windows.

He turned a corner and came face to face with a familiar door.

The locked one.

The wood was dark, its surface covered in age-old scratches and tiny nicks that told of decades gone by. Ayaan's steps faltered. He hadn't intended to walk this way. His office was in the opposite direction. But somehow, his feet had led him here.

For a long moment, he just stood there.

He hadn't touched this door in years. The last time he had, he remembered it had refused to open—as if sealed from the other side. He'd given up trying after the third attempt, telling himself it was just some junk storage space.

But the unease he felt now said otherwise.

Ayaan began to walk past it.

He didn't look at the doorknob. Didn't acknowledge the chill in the air. He simply tried to ignore the uncomfortable tightness coiling in his chest.

But then—

> thump.

Soft. Almost like a pillow falling.

He stopped.

> thump.

Closer this time.

Ayaan slowly turned his head toward the door. His heartbeat picked up.

The sound had come from inside the room.

He stared.

The handle didn't move. The door didn't shake. But something... shifted behind it.

Then came a sound he hadn't expected.

> A breath.

Shaky. Hollow. As though someone had exhaled slowly, just inches away from the other side.

Ayaan's mouth went dry. He took an involuntary step back.

The silence that followed pressed against his ears like cotton. He wanted to call out, but what would he even say? And who was there to hear?

His fingers curled into fists at his sides.

No. He wasn't going to open it.

He turned and walked away, a little too fast now, trying not to look back. But every step he took felt like he was being watched. And when he reached the other end of the hallway and turned the corner, he swore he heard the faintest sound of a knob rattling behind him.

He didn't stop.

Didn't look.

He just whispered under his breath.

> "Not now… not again."

The door to his study creaked open, the familiar scent of old books and the faint musk of forgotten papers greeting him as he stepped inside. It was a small, quiet room, but the mess had accumulated like a silent reminder of all the things he had left behind. Papers, pens, and books lay scattered across his desk and the floor. His hand instinctively reached up to rub his forehead, the weight of it all pressing on his mind. How had it all gotten this far?

He shook his head, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. There were tasks to be done, and even though the clutter seemed overwhelming, he couldn't afford to leave it another moment. He moved with purpose, gathering stray papers and books, stacking them on the corner of the desk. It felt almost mechanical, the repetitive motions grounding him in something tangible, something that demanded his attention. Every item he picked up seemed to whisper its own quiet request, reminding him of days gone by, of things he'd forgotten in the whirlwind of life's demands.

The study had always been a sanctuary, a place where he could escape the noise of the world, a room where he could think clearly, reflect, and find some semblance of peace. But today, it felt different. The air was thick, the silence almost suffocating, as if the room itself had become aware of the disarray in his mind. Even the sunlight that streamed through the open window felt far too distant, too muted. It filtered in, soft and pale, as though it too was hesitant to touch the things around it.

He walked to the window, his footsteps heavy, and pulled the curtains wide open. The sunlight grew a little stronger, warm against his skin, but it didn't seem to reach into the corners of the room, leaving the shadows to linger and stretch. The outside world appeared calm — a typical afternoon. Trees swayed lazily in the breeze, birds chirped from the branches, and yet something within him stirred uneasily, a small, almost imperceptible shift deep in his chest.

The quiet outside was too perfect.

Shaking off the unsettling thought, he turned away from the window and began to focus on the task at hand once more. He grabbed his prayer mat from the corner, unfurling it onto the wooden floor with deliberate movements. His fingers brushed against the edges of the mat, tracing the intricate patterns stitched into the fabric. It was a small act, but one that brought a sense of peace, a return to routine. It was a small anchor in the vast sea of things that had begun to feel out of control.

The call to prayer, soft and melodic, echoed through the open window from the nearby mosque. The sound felt like an old friend, familiar and soothing, reaching into the stillness of the room and pulling him out of the whirlwind of his thoughts. Dhuhr. The midday prayer. His hands, almost on instinct, moved to wash up. The cool water on his skin brought a slight shiver, grounding him even further. His movements were mechanical, practiced, as if this small ritual was the one thing in his day that could be controlled.

He returned to the prayer mat, his heart a little lighter with each step. There was something calming about the simplicity of it all. The repetition of the words, the rhythm of the prayer, the quiet space it created within him.

Standing in the position for sujood, his forehead pressed gently against the mat, the coolness of the fabric beneath him offering a fleeting comfort. But then, it came. The chill.

It was subtle at first — a small, creeping sensation that ran down his spine, like a cold finger tracing the line of his back. It was so slight he could almost dismiss it, chalking it up to the air conditioning or the temperature of the room. But no. This was something different. This coldness didn't belong.

His thoughts flickered to a moment long ago, a memory he couldn't place. A whisper in the dark, a fleeting touch that he couldn't remember clearly, but it had always lingered at the edges of his mind. He ignored it, trying to focus, to push past the unsettling feeling.

His breath came steadily, and he forced himself to return to the rhythm of the prayer. He couldn't let this… whatever it was… disrupt the calm he was trying to reclaim.

The sensation lingered for a few more seconds, though, like the coldness of a forgotten memory brushing against the warmth of the present. A shiver ran through him, and for a moment, it felt as though something—or someone—was standing just behind him. Watching. Waiting.

But as quickly as it had come, the sensation passed, slipping into the corners of his mind like smoke. He lifted his head from the mat, his movements slow as he sat back on his heels. The room was still the same — quiet, filled with the dust of his thoughts and the weight of his distractions. Yet, something had changed. The air was different now, heavier somehow. He couldn't place it, but it was undeniable.

The sunlight had dimmed slightly, casting the room in a deeper hue. The shadows stretched longer across the floor, as if responding to the shift in the atmosphere.

He rose to his feet, his heart still unsettled. There was something about the room now, something in the air that didn't feel quite right. He tried to shake it off, moving to roll up the prayer mat and tidy the space, but the feeling lingered.

A soft sound echoed in the hallway outside, the creak of the floorboards, faint but distinct. He paused, his hand resting on the rolled-up mat, his ears straining to catch the source. The silence that followed was deep, almost oppressive. It was as if the whole house had fallen into a stillness, waiting.

Was it the house settling? Or was it something else? He took a step toward the door, his hand lingering on the doorknob, but then stopped himself. He had to push forward. He had to regain his sense of normalcy.

But in that moment, he knew: the quiet had been broken. Something was coming. Something he could not yet understand, but would soon have no choice but to face.

The door to the study remained ajar, the shadow of the hallway stretching just beyond the threshold, waiting.

The lingering sensation from earlier remained, like a shadow that refused to leave. It was as though the weight of something important had settled in his chest, something unresolved. But he couldn't dwell on it forever. The need for normalcy pulled him back, nudging him toward the routine that had always been his anchor.

He moved to the kitchen, his hands almost mechanically preparing a cup of tea. The comforting warmth of the steam and the familiar scent of the brew helped him steady himself. He poured the tea into his favorite mug, the one with a crack from years of use, then made his way back to his desk.

Sitting down, he placed the steaming cup next to his laptop and opened it, diving straight into the mundane tasks that awaited him. The emails flooded in — reminders, meeting schedules, requests for research collaborations. He sifted through them, his mind already drifting. The monotony of it all had become second nature, a routine that no longer felt burdensome but just... necessary.

One particular email stood out: a request from a university's folklore journal asking if he would submit a paper. His mind wandered back to the article he had been working on, the one he had set aside, half-finished, for weeks. He briefly considered the possibility of diving back into it. The idea felt comforting, like a thread connecting him to his past. Maybe, just maybe, he could find his way back to something that had once sparked excitement in him.

He started drafting a response, typing a few lines, but something caught his eye. It was an old unread email — one he hadn't seen before. From a friend. From his university days. His fingers froze.

The subject line was simple: "Hey, long time no see!"

His heart gave a quick lurch. He clicked it open, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It was from Adeel, someone he hadn't heard from in years. Adeel had been part of his close circle back in university, and just reading his name brought a rush of memories — late-night study sessions, endless cups of coffee, and their usual banter that had made the stress of academic life bearable.

He clicked on the message. It was short but full of warmth, asking how he had been, sharing a quick update on life, and wondering if they could catch up sometime. It was so simple, yet it made him realize just how much he missed these easy connections. With a sigh, he started typing a reply, the words flowing faster than he had expected. It felt good to write again, to reach out, to reconnect with a past that he had almost forgotten.

He hit send, then moved on to another thread, this time from his old university group chat. He smiled as he scrolled through their recent messages. They were planning a reunion, one he had somehow missed hearing about. He hesitated for a moment, unsure of whether he should respond. They had all moved on with their lives, but the thought of seeing them again, of reliving those carefree days, felt oddly comforting.

He shot them a quick reply, agreeing to the reunion. He couldn't remember the last time he had laughed like they used to. The idea of catching up, of seeing familiar faces, seemed too good to pass up.

But as he closed the message thread, something caught his attention. A new notification. A voice note. He opened it, and instantly, he was flooded with memories.

It was from his childhood friends back in Lahore — voices he hadn't heard in years. The familiar sounds of laughter and banter instantly hit him, and for a moment, everything felt right again.

"Yaar, where have you been? You think you've become too important for us now, huh?"

Bilal's voice was unmistakable, full of mock outrage but wrapped in affection.

"You were the one who used to beg for cricket matches, and now you're too busy for us? We're waiting, man!"

A wave of warmth washed over him. He could almost see Bilal's smirk, the mischievous glint in his eyes. He hit play on the next one, a chuckle escaping his lips as Sara's voice filled the room.

"We've been talking about you, man. You still have those ridiculous paper-thin excuses? I bet you're sitting there writing some scholarly nonsense, right? Come on, admit it, we all know you're still the nerdy one,"

Sara teased, a soft laugh in the background.

"Seriously, when are you coming back? Lahore's still here, waiting for you to show your face. Don't be a stranger, yaar. We all miss you,"

Bilal chimed in once more.

He grinned, feeling his chest tighten with nostalgia. The warmth in their words, the easy affection, was a balm to the heaviness he hadn't even realized he'd been carrying. It was as though no time had passed at all. Their voices made everything feel… uncomplicated, like the simple joy of youth had never faded.

The next voice note came through, this time with both Bilal and Sara laughing together.

"You remember that time we stayed up all night arguing about who the best cricketer was? Man, that was the good old days. When are we going to do that again?"

He felt a deep, almost painful longing. His chest ached with the memory of all those moments, those small pieces of time that had shaped him. And then it hit him — a cold realization.

He hadn't just forgotten about these friends. There were others, too. The ones who had played with him since he was a child, the ones who had been there before university, before the papers, before all the things that had pulled him away. He had forgotten them too. Why?

A sudden wave of guilt washed over him. Why had he pushed them out of his mind? His childhood friends, the ones who had always been there for him, the ones who had known him before he became the person he was today. The thought was unsettling. How could he have let them fade into the background so easily?

He paused, staring at his phone, lost in thought. The messages from Bilal and Sara were still there, waiting for a response. He typed something quickly, his fingers almost mechanical.

"I miss you guys. I know, I've been terrible about keeping in touch. But I'll make it up to you. I'll come visit soon. I promise."

But the unease didn't leave him. He stared at the message, wondering if it was enough. Could they forgive the silence, the months — no, years — of absence? Would they still remember him the same way? Would they even care?

He sat back in his chair, the weight of everything settling around him. As he looked at the messages, a feeling crept in. A deep, gnawing thought that maybe it wasn't just about reconnecting with these old friends. Maybe it was about finding a part of himself he had buried, forgotten in the chaos of life.

He took a deep breath, sending the message, but the unease lingered. And for the first time in a long time, he wasn't sure what would come next.

Ayaan sat at his desk, his phone still in his hand, the messages from his childhood friends still open on the screen. For the first time in days, he felt the weight of the world lighten. Their jokes and familiar teasing brought a fleeting smile to his face, easing the tension that had been building inside him. He laughed softly to himself, imagining their voices in his head, and felt a strange warmth in his chest — a connection to the past he hadn't realized he'd been missing.

But as quickly as the moment of peace came, it was shattered.

The room was suddenly too quiet. The usual hum of his laptop seemed distant, as if the sound itself had been swallowed by the silence. Ayaan's eyes flicked to the overhead light, noticing the subtle flicker of the bulb. At first, it was so faint he thought it might be his imagination. But then, it happened again. The light flickered once, twice, before settling, casting an eerie glow over the room.

He shifted in his seat, a tightness in his chest that wasn't there a moment ago. Something felt wrong. His eyes darted toward the staircase that led to the upper floor. The house was old, and creaks and groans were part of its character. But this — this was different.

A faint thump echoed through the floorboards, unmistakable in its clarity. It wasn't the usual sound of an old house shifting with the wind. This was deliberate. Someone had dropped something. It wasn't the first time Ayaan had heard such noises — but tonight, the sound felt sharp, too distinct.

He sat frozen for a long beat, staring at the stairs as if expecting someone to appear. But there was no one. The house was still, and the hallway at the top of the stairs was empty, save for the dim glow of light spilling through the crack of his bedroom door.

Ayaan rose slowly from his chair, a dull heaviness settling in his limbs. The air in the room felt thick, almost suffocating. He stepped toward the stairs, each footstep seeming too loud in the otherwise quiet house. But when he reached the base of the stairs, there was no sign of anyone. The upper floor was still, bathed in shadows that seemed to grow deeper with every passing second.

A strange, unsettling sensation crawled over his skin, and for a moment, he could almost feel eyes on him, watching from the shadows.

With a quiet exhale, he turned to head back to his desk, his heart still racing. But then, a soft knock echoed from the wall beside him.

It wasn't loud, but it was clear, distinct. Like someone tapping gently, as if asking for attention. Ayaan's breath caught in his throat, and he turned toward the sound. His eyes scanned the empty room, the stillness of it all pressing in on him.

No one was there.

He swallowed hard, unsure of whether to laugh at himself for being so jumpy or to feel more alarmed. It was just an old house. It creaked. It settled. That was all. But the unease in his stomach refused to go away.

He returned to his desk, trying to focus on his laptop. But as he sat down, the temperature in the room dropped, suddenly and sharply. A cold draft swept through the room, brushing against his neck, making him shiver despite the warmth of the day outside. His breath came out in small, visible puffs in the suddenly chill air.

He rubbed his arms, trying to shake off the cold, but the sensation only deepened. The laptop screen flickered, a brief glitch that made him freeze. He stared at the screen, watching as the page shifted for a split second. Then, in the corner of his screen, a chat bubble appeared — an empty one at first.

Ayaan's eyes narrowed. He hadn't typed anything, so what was this?

The words began to appear, one after another, typed out quickly and almost urgently:

"You didn't forget them.""But you forgot us."

A cold shiver ran down his spine, his fingers stiff on the keyboard. His heart pounded in his chest as he stared at the message that had appeared as if typed on its own. He blinked, unsure of what he was seeing, but before he could process it, the message cleared, disappearing as quickly as it had come, leaving no trace behind.

The silence in the room stretched on. The warmth from earlier was gone, replaced by a deep, unsettling chill that seemed to cling to every corner of the room. Ayaan's fingers were cold against the keys, his mind racing. Had he imagined it? The flickering light, the strange noises, the message that had appeared and vanished like a ghost in the machine?

He glanced at his phone, where his friends continued to text in the background, oblivious to his growing sense of discomfort. He forced himself to look at the screen, at the words they had sent, but the messages now seemed distant, somehow hollow. His laughter, which had felt so real just moments ago, now seemed to come from far away, like it belonged to someone else.

The room seemed to pulse around him, the shadows growing deeper, pressing in from the edges. He could still feel that strange sensation, the one that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He wasn't alone. He knew it, deep down. Something — or someone — was watching him.

Ayaan's fingers trembled as he tried to continue typing, but the words on the screen blurred together. His thoughts scattered, his attention fractured between the messages, the strange occurrences, and the cold emptiness that seemed to cling to the air. The unease was growing, a knot tightening in his chest.

Then, just as quickly as it had begun, the moment passed. The lightbulb above flickered once more, then steadied. The coldness faded, though the sense of something being off lingered, heavy and suffocating. The house creaked, as it always did, and the quiet returned.

But Ayaan couldn't shake the feeling that something had just happened — something he couldn't explain, something that had left him with more questions than answers. He glanced at the empty corners of the room once more, wondering if he was truly alone.

For now, he was. But deep down, a nagging thought settled in his mind. Whatever this was, it wasn't over. Not yet. Something was waiting.

Ayaan took a slow, steadying breath, forcing himself to focus. The unease was still gnawing at him, but he couldn't let it control him. He sat back at his desk, tried to ignore the lingering chill in the air, and opened his research file. He needed to move forward — to bury himself in something logical, something grounded. He was far too used to relying on reason to let these strange events shake him.

He clicked open a new document and began typing, trying to center himself in the familiar rhythm of academic work. Dreams tied to childhood trauma. That was a start. His fingers danced over the keys as he wrote about how certain traumatic events in early childhood could be buried in the subconscious and resurface in adulthood in the form of dreams, memories, and strange encounters. He even considered the possibility that his recent visions — the flickering lights, the whispers — might be manifestations of past traumas, distorted by his mind.

But the words didn't come as easily as they usually did. His thoughts kept slipping back, away from the page, to the strange occurrences that had taken root in his mind.

He glanced at the screen again, trying to shake the feeling of being watched. His fingers hovered over the keyboard before he clicked away to Google, hoping to distract himself with a bit of research. He typed in "phantom childhood friends," half-expecting to find nothing but vague anecdotes or stories about imaginary companions.

He scrolled through several results, mostly articles and personal blogs about children who claimed to have "imaginary friends" — some of whom continued to feel their presence long into adulthood. Maybe that's all it was. Maybe these "phantom" friends were simply figments of his imagination, lingering from childhood, appearing in dreams and memories that his adult mind had been unable to fully process.

But then, something caught his eye. He clicked on a link that led him to an obscure academic article, one that seemed out of place among the rest. The title read: Unseen Companions: The Psychological and Supernatural Connection to Phantom Childhood Friends. His curiosity piqued, Ayaan opened the article and skimmed through its contents. There were theories about how people could form attachments to entities — not imaginary friends, but something more. The article described them as "Unseen Companions," invisible but deeply felt. The term struck him like a cold wave. His heart skipped a beat.

He clicked the bookmark icon with a quiet click, saving the article for later, his mind racing with possibilities. The article referenced studies of childhood trauma, but also leaned heavily on anecdotal evidence of people claiming to experience these entities throughout their lives. Some had felt them as children, others as adults, but all seemed to carry the weight of those long-forgotten bonds into their present.

Suddenly, a thought flitted into his mind, breaking his concentration: The book.

He leaned back in his chair, a strange sensation prickling down his spine. He hadn't thought about his great-grandfather's book in years. He had inherited it a long time ago — a dusty, leather-bound tome that had belonged to his great-grandfather, a man known for his peculiar interests in folklore, the supernatural, and the unseen. The book was filled with strange, esoteric writings about creatures that lurked in the shadows, entities not quite of this world.

Ayaan could remember flipping through its yellowed pages as a child, captivated by the stories of dark, mysterious beings: jinns, spirits, and otherworldly creatures that could walk among humans, invisible to the naked eye. It had always seemed like myth and fiction back then, stories told to scare children — but now, in the wake of the strange experiences he had been having, the idea that something might actually exist beyond the veil of the visible world felt much more plausible.

He pushed his chair back and stood up, walking toward the shelf where the book rested, wedged between other old, forgotten volumes. His fingers brushed over the spine, cold and worn, before he pulled it free from its place.

Opening it, he found the page he had read years ago, one that had haunted him even as a child. There, in faded ink, were descriptions of creatures that mirrored the "Unseen Companions" the article had described — invisible, but very real to those who experienced them. Some were said to form bonds with humans in early childhood, living alongside them, unnoticed by the rest of the world. The book's author had claimed that these entities could be tied to specific people, drawn to certain individuals by fate or perhaps by something darker.

Ayaan swallowed hard, his mind racing. Could this be the same thing? The vague, fleeting feeling of something else in the room — the odd sensations, the inexplicable chills, the sudden presence of a voice or knock when no one was there. Could these "Unseen Companions" be the same as the things described in the book?

Could they have been following him all these years, something from his childhood trauma that had never truly left him?

He flipped through the book's pages with growing urgency. There were sections detailing the ways these creatures interacted with humans — always with caution, always staying just out of reach, just beyond understanding. A line caught his eye:

"They may be bound to the one they've chosen, but only if that person remembers them. If they are forgotten, they may fade, but they never truly leave."

A chill ran down Ayaan's spine. He closed the book with a snap, his fingers trembling slightly. The connection between the dreams, the feelings of being watched, the strange messages — it all felt too real now. Too connected. Was it possible that the "Unseen Companions" in the article weren't just figments of his imagination? That these beings were tied to his past, waiting for him to remember them?

The idea was too much to bear, yet too tempting to dismiss. His great-grandfather had known something — something that Ayaan was only now starting to piece together.

But what did it all mean?

What was it that he was supposed to remember?

And more importantly, why had he forgotten?

The room grew colder again, the shadows deeper, as if the very air around him had thickened. He could almost feel the presence of something near him, just outside of his vision. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Ayaan wasn't sure he wanted to look.