The cafe bell door Ringing, a sound Mani had come to dread. It was the starter's pistol for the end of the school day, the signal for the gauntlet to begin. He remained at his desk, head down, playing with his pencils in his case as if it were the most critical task in the world. Around him, the room others into a joyful chaos of scraping chairs, zipping backpacks, and shouted plans for the afternoon.
"See you at the field, Mark!"
"Don't be late!"
Mani counted slowly in his head. 1… 2… 3… It was a trick he developed. By the time he reached thirty, the room would be clear of everyone but Mrs. Kamran, who would be wiping the board with slow, tired sweeps of the eraser. He could feel her occasional glances, a mix of pity and helplessness that was almost worse than the taunts.
On the count of twenty-eight, he risked a look. The roomwas nearly empty. Good. He stood, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. It was heavier than it needed to be, weighed down by books and a silence he carried with him everywhere.
"Have a good afternoon, Mani," Mrs. Kamran said, her voice gentle.
"You too, Mrs. Kamran," he mumbled to the floor, and slipped out the door.
The hallway was his first trial. He adopted the posture of a ghost—shoulders hunched, eyes locked on the scuffed linoleum, a landscape of black heel marks and fossilized gum wads. He moved like a fish trying to swim upstream against a loud, boisterous current. The roar of slamming lockers and adolescent laughter was a physical force, pressing in on him.
He was almost to the main doors, a rectangle of grey, overcast light, when it happened.
A solid shoulder slammed into him, knocking the air from his lungs. His backpack slipped, and his textbooks and binders skidded across the floor.
"Watch where you're going, ghost."
Mark. Of course, it was Mark. He stood there, flanked by Liam and Jake, a smirk plastered on his face. He was already wearing his soccer jersey, a beacon of belonging that Mani could never hope to possess.
A hot flush crept up Mani neck, burning his cheeks and the tips of his ears. He didn't speak. Words were weapons that were always turned against him. He simply knelt, his hands trembling as he reached for his scattered things. The spiral binding of his science notebook was bent. He tried to smooth it out, his focus entirely on that small, futile task.
The circle of spectators was the worst part. The other kids didn't join in, but they didn't leave either. They formed a passive audience, their silence a form of consent. Mani focused on a single, long crack in the floor tile, imagining it was a river he could float away on.
A grubby, white-and-blue sneaker came down, pinning his history textbook. "Looking for something?" Mark asked, his voice a mockery of concern.
Mani's throat tightened. He could smell the sharp, artificial scent of Mark's deodorant and the faint, sour tang of the potato chips he'd eaten at lunch. "Please," Mani whispered. The word was pathetic, a surrender.
"Please, what?" Mark leaned in closer, his voice dropping. "You gotta speak up, ghost. No one can hear you."
Mani remained silent, staring at the sneaker. He thought of his mother. She would be at home now, probably humming in the kitchen, starting dinner. She'd ask him the same question she asked every day: "How was your day, honey?" And he would give the same answer he always did: "It was fine." The lie was a stone in his stomach, but it was easier than the truth. Easier than watching the worry crease her forehead.
Finally, with a dismissive laugh, Mark lifted his foot. "See you tomorrow, Mani."
The group moved on, their laughter echoing down the hall. The spectators dispersed, melting away as if nothing had happened. Mani stayed on his knees for a long moment, the cold from the floor seeping through his trousers. The humiliation was a lead weight in his gut. He finally stood, clutching his damaged books to his chest like a shield.
He pushed through the heavy double doors and the outside air hit him—a damp, chilly breeze that promised rain. The sky was a sheet of unbroken grey. He took a deep breath, the first full one since leaving the classroom.
He had a routine. A safe route home. But today, the weight of the afternoon felt heavier than usual. The thought of going straight home, of plastering on a "fine" face for his mom, was suddenly unbearable. Instead of turning left, he turned right, towards the old town park.
It was a risk. The Park wasn't on his usual path, and unfamiliar territory was always dangerous. But it was also usually empty at this time of day, a forgotten space between school and supper.
The Park was a small, sad square of patchy grass, a rusty swing set, and a bench that was perpetually damp. Today, it was deserted. The swings moved gently in the wind, creaking a lonely song. Mani dropped his backpack on the ground and sat on the bench, the cold, damp wood immediately seeping through his thin trousers.
He was alone. Truly, completely alone. And for the first time all day, his shoulders relaxed.
A single, hot tear escaped, tracing a clean path through the grime on his cheek. He wiped it away angrily with the sleeve of his jacket. Crying was what they wanted. Crying meant they won. He wouldn't give them that.
He looked up at the sky, the first cold drops of rain beginning to fall. They landed on his face, mingling with the salt of his stubborn tears. They felt clean. Pure.
And then it happened.
A thought, clear and sharp as a piece of glass, cut through the murky jumble of his own mind. It was a voice, but not one he heard with his ears. It was a voice he felt in the core of his being, calm, ancient, and certain.
'He's the one.'
Mani flinched, his head snapping around. "Hello?" he called out, his voice cracking.
The Park was empty. The swings creaked. The rain pattered softly on the dry leaves. There was no one.
He stood up, his heart hammering against his ribs. The feeling of being watched was suddenly so intense it was a physical pressure, a hand on the back of his neck. The peaceful loneliness he'd felt moments before was gone, replaced by a primal, electric fear.
He scanned the perimeter of the park, his eyes darting from the thick oak trees to the shadowy alley beyond the fence. Nothing. No movement. No person.
Had he imagined it? Was he so lonely he was inventing voices in his head? The logic was comforting, but his instincts screamed otherwise. The voice had been too real, too separate from himself.
The rain began to fall in earnest now, cold and steady. He grabbed his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder. He needed to get home. Now.
He walked quickly, then broke into a run, his worn sneakers slapping against the wet pavement. He didn't look back. But with every step, the feeling of those unseen eyes followed him, a silent, chilling shadow.
He was not as alone as he had thought. And for the first time, the familiar loneliness of the school hallways seemed like a safer, simpler kind of hell.