The corridor filled with noise instantly — metal tiffin boxes clattering open, shoes squeaking on wet floor, someone shouting about stolen samosas. But beneath all that familiar chaos, Dev still heard the echo of the second bell. The one that shouldn't have been there.
Meera tugged his sleeve. "Come. Behind the library."
He followed without asking why.
The back of the library was the quietest spot on campus — a narrow strip of concrete shaded by a huge neem whose roots cracked the ground like old scars. A broken bench leaned against the wall. Someone had carved initials into it years ago, the letters almost worn away.
Meera checked the corner twice before speaking.
"Whatever happened in class… we should see if it happens again."
Dev rubbed his palms on his trousers. "How? It's not like I can— I don't know— press a button and make the world freeze."
She gave him a look. Not sarcastic — thoughtful. "Maybe you don't have to. Maybe it happens around you."
He didn't argue. He couldn't, not after what he'd seen.
Meera pulled a pencil from her bag and held it between them. "If something is wrong with time, something simple should show it. Dropping this, for example."
"That's stupid," Dev said quietly.
"Yeah," she agreed. "Let's do it."
She crouched a little, holding the pencil at shoulder height.Dev leaned forward, watching the tip, his chest tight for reasons he couldn't name.
"Ready?" she asked.
He nodded.
She let go.
The pencil fell—smooth, natural, the way pencils always fall—then, halfway down, it stuttered.
Not stopped. Not slowed.
A shiver.Like a frame missing in a film reel.
Then it struck the ground with a flat tock.
Meera inhaled sharply. "You saw it."
Dev didn't answer. His heartbeat pounded loud enough to drown everything else. He reached for the pencil, but before his fingers touched it, something in the air shifted — a brief, thin tension, like the moment right before lightning.
His hand froze. Not because he wanted it to.
The world around him thickened again — the same invisible weight he'd felt in class. The branches above them seemed to sway a fraction too slow. A drop of water slid off a leaf and hung there, suspended mid-fall, trembling in the air between motion and stillness.
"Dev," Meera whispered. "Dev, look at me."
He tried. His head moved like it was pushing through syrup.
Then, just as suddenly as it came, the heaviness broke.
The drop hit the ground.The branches resumed their normal sway.The pencil lay still.
Meera touched his arm, a quick, grounding tap. "That wasn't normal," she said.
"Nothing's been normal," he murmured.
She opened her mouth to respond — but the lunch bell rang again, far away.
Just once.
This time, the echo was in Dev's chest, not the air.