The rain sounded like whispers tonight.
Not the soft kind — but the kind that feels like someone breathing too close behind you.
Ryaan sat near his hostel window, watching the city drown under yellow streetlights. The pane was fogged, but when he wiped it with his sleeve… it blinked.
He froze.
Just for a second — his reflection closed its eyes before he did.
He stared again, heartbeat thudding in his chest.
No movement.
Only his pale face staring back — sleepless, trembling, with the same streak of dried blood under his nails.
On the desk beside him, his phone vibrated.
A new message.
> Unknown: You forgot to wash it off again.
Ryaan's breath hitched.
He typed back —
> Who are you?
No reply.
But when he looked back at the window, there was writing on the fog. Words slowly forming from the inside of the glass:
> "Check under your bed before 3:00 AM."
He glanced at the clock — 2:57 AM.
The whispering rain grew louder, almost like voices arguing outside his window.
He knelt down, heart pounding, and lifted the bedsheet.
Underneath — a wet piece of mirror. Broken, sharp, still dripping with rainwater even though his window was closed.
As he picked it up, a faint reflection stared back — not him, but someone smiling.
Someone wearing his face.
And then the clock struck three.