Blacklight Storm

"Some storms don't bring rain. They bring memory."

It began just after midnight.

A low hum.

Like distant drums played under the skin.

Mira's drones started glitching.

Rishav dropped a pan — not from fear, but from forgetting why he held it.

Yash was the first to notice the sky turning black, not with night — but with moving light.

Not lightning. Not clouds. Something else.

Then, the vibrations came.

Every surface began to hum. Bones inside bodies shivered.

Babies cried without breath. Old wounds reopened.

"Everyone inside. Don't speak. Don't think loud," Yash ordered.

The storm had no wind.

Only soundless noise and shadows made of pressure.

Inside the shelter, walls began glowing faintly — divine marks Yash had carved weeks ago.

Khushi clung to Ankita's hand.

"It's trying to remember us…" she said.

Not "kill."

"Remember."

Outside, Mira slipped away. Not from cowardice — but curiosity.

She held a hacked radio device she'd tuned for weird frequencies.

The moment the storm passed over her, the signal spiked.

"It's not weather," she whispered.

"It's a message."

Yash stood in the courtyard, eyes closed, body vibrating.

Time around him warped — air curved like melted glass.

He saw flashes:

A girl drowning in blood

A god with her mouth sewn shut

Himself, burning, walking through fire

Then the storm passed.

No damage. No bodies.

But everyone remembered something they never experienced.

Memories implanted — or unlocked?

No one knew.

Only one phrase remained etched on every wall:

"REMEMBER WHAT WAS ERASED."