The world around Ayaan was a haze of darkness and forgotten dreams.
He stirred slightly in his bed, the weight of heavy sleep pressing down on his limbs like chains. Somewhere, deep inside that thick fog of unconsciousness, he felt something — no, someone — gently shaking his shoulder.
"Ayaan… Wake up… Salah…"
The voice was barely above a whisper, soft and urgent, like a mother rousing her child before dawn. It wasn't loud, but it echoed strangely inside his mind, cutting through the heavy fog with the sharpness of a blade dipped in tenderness.
Ayaan groaned lowly, his brows knitting together. He tried to turn his head, to see who was calling him, but sleep clung stubbornly to him, refusing to let go.
Again, the hand shook him — firmer this time, more insistent.
"Wake up... Salah... Don't miss it…"
The words lingered in the air, heavy with meaning. Ayaan's eyes snapped open. He blinked rapidly, trying to adjust to the darkness of his room.
For a long moment, he just lay there, breathing hard, his heart pounding in his ears. The room was silent — oppressively so. The only sounds were his own harsh breaths and the occasional creak of the old house settling into itself.
He sat up slowly, the blanket pooling around his waist. His eyes darted across the room — to the closed windows, the heavy curtains, the worn carpet that covered the floor. The door to his bedroom stood slightly ajar, but there was no movement, no shadow, no sign of anyone.
Completely empty.
Yet the lingering sensation of touch — of fingers pressing against his shoulder — remained, as if it had sunk into his very skin.
He swallowed thickly, dragging a hand through his messy hair. His mind was still sluggish, but realization soon struck him with the force of a blow.
He forgot to offer his prayer.
Panic bloomed in his chest, swift and merciless. Maghrib… Isha… he had missed both.
How could he forgot to offer his prayer? He never missed them — not willingly. Guilt gnawed at him, sharp and relentless.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the floor cold against his bare feet. The clock on his nightstand blinked mockingly — 4:55 AM. Almost Fajr.
Without thinking, Ayaan stumbled toward the bathroom, performing wudu in a daze. The cold water shocked him into full wakefulness, but even then, the memory of the unseen voice clung stubbornly to the edges of his mind.
By the time he returned to his room, prayer mat in hand, the sky outside had begun to lighten ever so slightly — the faintest promise of dawn hovering at the horizon.
Ayaan spread his prayer mat carefully on the floor, aligning it toward the Qibla as he had done countless times before. He stood there for a moment, his heart thudding dully against his ribs, his body tense and uncertain.
He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply.
Focus.
He could think about the voice later. Right now, he needed to pray.
He raised his hands beside his ears, whispering the takbir.
"Allahu Akbar."
And the world around him fell in silence right away.
The moment he began his prayer, something shifted in the room.
It was subtle at first — a change in the air, as if the very walls were holding their breath. The soft rustle of fabric, like someone else moving, echoed faintly beside him.
Ayaan's heart stumbled in his chest.
He squeezed his eyes tighter, willing himself to focus.
He recited the verses, his voice steady but his soul trembling.
Yet no matter how much he tried to center himself, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was not alone.
That someone else was praying and right beside him, moving in perfect synchrony — bowing when he bowed, rising when he rose, whispering the sacred words alongside him.
It should have terrified him.
Maybe a part of him was terrified.
But strangely, another part of him — deep, hidden — felt... comforted.
As if whoever was there was not a threat, but a reminder.
A gentle nudge back toward something he had forgotten.
When he lowered himself into sujood, pressing his forehead to the ground, the sensation was overwhelming — like being in congregation at a masjid, surrounded by others, even though he knew — he knew — he was alone.
Or was he?
The prayer ended.
He sat back on his heels, whispering the final salaam to the right, then to the left.
"Assalamu Alaikum wa Rahmatullah…"
Silence.
For a moment, he just sat there, his eyes closed, breathing in the stillness. His heart was pounding so loudly he could hear it in his ears.
Slowly, hesitantly, he turned his head — first to the right, then to the left.
Nothing.
No one was around him.
The room was as empty as it had been when he began. But the air still carried that strange weight, like an unseen gaze resting softly upon him.
Watching.
Waiting.
He pulled his knees to his chest, resting his forehead against them, trying to steady his racing thoughts.
Maybe he was imagining things.
Maybe he was still half-dreaming.
Maybe he was just... tired.
But deep down, Ayaan knew better.
This house had begun to wake up. The past was stirring — memories he had buried, promises he had forgotten.
And someone — or something — was reaching out to him again. He wasn't sure if he was ready.
But it all had already begun the moment he stepped in this house.
The silence stretched around him, so thick and almost humming.
Ayaan sat frozen on his prayer mat, hands resting limply on his knees, heart thudding against his ribs.
He tried to shake off the strange feeling — the sensation that had wrapped itself around him the entire time he prayed.
But it clung to him stubbornly, just like a mist that refused to lift.
He blew out a shaky breath, rubbing his hands over his face.
Focus.
He wasn't done yet.
Shame pricked at him again when he remembered that he had missed his Maghrib and Isha prayers the night before. No matter what had happened — no matter the strange encounters, the exhaustion, the fear — there was no excuse. He couldn't let himself drift further away.
Gathering himself, Ayaan slowly rose to his feet. His legs were stiff, his body sluggish, but his resolve hardened.
He would offer his Qadha Salah first.
He couldn't undo what had already been missed, but he could try to make amends.
The first missed prayer — Maghrib.
He placed his hands beside his ears once more and said, "Allahu Akbar," letting the words fall from his lips like an anchor, grounding him.
But this time, the sensation returned almost instantly.
That presence.
Not as heavy as before, but there — lingering quietly beside him.
Silent.
Watching.
Praying.
He forced himself to keep going, willing his trembling hands to still, his mind to focus on the verses he recited.
Every movement felt heavier, as if unseen eyes traced his every bow and prostration.
When he entered sujood, the ground beneath his forehead seemed colder — more solid — than it should have been, like it had been claimed by something ancient and unseen.
Still, he finished his prayer.
He sat for a moment after the tasleem, hands resting on his thighs, the weight of unseen company pressing in on him.
But he did not falter.
He rose again.
Isha.
The second missed prayer.
He went through the motions with the same careful devotion, ignoring the quickening of his pulse, the way the small hairs at the back of his neck prickled every time he sensed something brushing past him — an unseen breath, a rustle of fabric, the barest shift of air.
By the time he said his final salam, his body was slick with sweat, though the room itself was cold.
Ayaan remained kneeling for a long time afterward, breathing deeply, grounding himself. He tried to rationalize it.
Maybe it's just my guilt.
My imagination.
And my fear.
But no matter how he tried to explain it away, the feeling remained.
Something — or someone — had been there.
Finally, with a deep sigh, Ayaan leaned back on his hands and tilted his head to stare at the ceiling.
It was a strange thing — to feel so utterly alone, and yet so heavily accompanied.
The quietness in the room wrapped around him, thick and heavy, like a blanket stitched with invisible threads. His fingers brushed lightly against the edges of his prayer mat, grounding himself in the present — but his mind was already drifting elsewhere, pulled back into the darkness of the night before.
Last night...
He had barely closed his eyes when he had felt it — a soft stirring in the air around him, something unseen brushing against his awareness.
And then the voice had come.
A boy's voice.
Young, filled with warmth and sorrow all at once, speaking not aloud, but somewhere deep inside his mind, as if reaching out across a great distance.
"We never stopped waiting for you, Ayaan."
The words echoed now, so vivid that for a fleeting second, Ayaan almost expected to see someone standing before him.
He had not seen the boy's face.
Had not even seen a shadow.
But the presence had been there — undeniable, clinging to the very air he breathed, threading itself through his dreams.
"We all are happy that you have returned to us once more."
Another echo, softer this time, filled with a strange kind of hope.
Ayaan closed his eyes briefly, pressing his palm to the center of his chest as if to still the wild beat of his heart.
He didn't understand.
Returned to who?
Returned from where?
What did he even mean by that?
The memories from his childhood, once sharp, were now blurred at the edges, like pages of an old book left too long in the rain.
But that voice... those words... they stirred something ancient inside him. Something he could not quite name.
"We hope you will remember the promise soon."
The final whisper rolled through his mind, leaving a strange ache in its wake — a feeling of loss, of something important slipping just beyond his grasp.
Ayaan opened his eyes again, the white ceiling blurring before him.
He stayed still for a moment longer, feeling the weight of unseen eyes, the silent company of something he could no longer deny.
He needed answers.
No — he wanted answers to all those questions.
Not guesses.
Not fears.
Real answers.
He pulled his legs under him and pushed himself to his feet. His body ached — not from the prayers, but from something deeper.
A weariness that felt carved into his very bones.
The Qur'an.
He needed to turn to it — he needed to listen.
Without bothering to fold the prayer mat, he padded barefoot across the room, the carpet muffling his footsteps. He opened the old wooden cabinet in the corner — the one his father had given him years ago to hold only sacred things — and reached inside with both hands.
His fingers brushed the cool, familiar cover of his Holy Qur'an with translation. It was worn from use, the edges softened, the pages filled with small notes he had made during nights of study and yearning.
He pulled it out carefully, cradling it against his chest with both hands, feeling a strange weight settle in his heart — a gravity that he hadn't felt in a long time.
Like something — or someone — had been waiting for this moment.
He carried it reverently to the low table near his bed and sat cross-legged before it. He hesitated, hands resting on the closed cover, head bowed.
'Where do I even begin?' he wondered.
He needed answers, but he didn't know which questions to ask. There were too many — swirling chaotically in his mind — too many fears, too many doubts.
Why had he felt a presence?
Why now?
Why did it feel so... familiar?
He inhaled slowly, closing his eyes. And then he whispered, barely above a breath:
"Ya Allah… guide me. Open the pages where You wish for me to see."
A small prayer. A small dua. A small plea.
He let his fingers fall naturally upon the Qur'an, and then, slowly, he opened it.
The pages fell open to a section he didn't recognize at first.
He blinked down at the Arabic script, his eyes tracing the lines instinctively, before
flickering to the translation beneath.
"Indeed, those who have said, 'Our Lord is Allah' and then remained steadfast — the angels will descend upon them, [saying], 'Do not fear and do not grieve but receive good tidings of Paradise, which you were promised.'"— (Surah Fussilat, 41:30)
Ayaan stared at the words, breath caught in his throat.
He read them again. And again.
The angels will descend upon them…Do not fear. Do not grieve…
It was as if the Qur'an itself had reached out to him, speaking directly to the turmoil twisting inside his chest.
Tears burned behind his eyes.Not from fear — not anymore.
But from something deeper.
A yearning.
A longing.
A faint glimmer of hope piercing through the darkness that had begun to consume him.
He traced the words with his fingertip, heart hammering.
Was that what he had felt?
A descent of mercy?
A reminder that he was not abandoned?
Or was it something else?
A memory stirred — faint and elusive — from long ago.
Running barefoot through gardens he barely remembered… laughter echoing through the trees… unseen hands lifting him when he stumbled…
Friends.
Friends he could not name.
Friends he could no longer see.
Ayaan pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, as if trying to push the memory back into focus.
But it slipped away, like mist curling between his fingers.
When he opened his eyes again, he flipped the pages gently, letting them fall where they wished.
Another verse caught his gaze.
"And We have certainly created man and know what his soul whispers to him, and We are closer to him than [his] jugular vein."— (Surah Qaf, 50:16)
Closer than the jugular vein.
The words sent a shiver down his spine.
He wasn't imagining things.
He wasn't alone.
He had never been alone.
Something had been near him all along — closer than he could comprehend.
Watching.
Guiding.
Waiting.
Maybe it wasn't something to fear.
Maybe it was something — someone — he needed to remember.
Hours seemed to bleed away as Ayaan sat hunched over the Qur'an, flipping through the pages, finding verse after verse that spoke directly to his soul.
Verses about unseen worlds.
About Allah's mercy.
About patience and steadfastness.
About trials and unseen helpers.
At times, he paused to wipe his face with his hands, overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of it. At other times, he simply sat there, eyes closed, letting the words sink into him like rain soaking into parched earth.
When he finally leaned back, exhausted but lighter somehow, the sky outside his window was no longer the deep indigo of pre-dawn.
It was a soft, bruised blue.
And in that tender silence, Ayaan realized something.
The journey had already begun from the moments he stepped in this house.
The doors he had unknowingly closed years ago were opening again.
The promises made in forgotten whispers were stirring.
The past he thought he had buried was rising from the ashes, demanding to be seen.
And he — whether he was ready or not — was being called back.
The afternoon sun had already started leaning toward the west by the time Ayaan finally stirred from his cozy seat by the bookshelf.
The soft light fell in dusty golden beams across the room, painting the old carpet and the low shelves in a warm, sleepy glow.
Somewhere outside, a crow cawed lazily, as if even the birds had agreed today was meant for slow, quiet hours.
With a small sigh, Ayaan gently closed the Quran, the thin pages whispering against each other.
He rose carefully, as though afraid to disturb the peace that had settled like a soft blanket over the house.
Reaching up, he placed the Quran back on the highest shelf, brushing his hand lightly across the delicate golden calligraphy embossed on the cover.
Safe and sound.
He stepped back and admired the shelf for a moment — the Quran resting at the very top, surrounded by a few carefully placed flowers in tiny vases his mother had once given him.
It made him feel... anchored somehow, like no matter how chaotic the world became, there would always be this little corner of peace.
Just as he was lost in that thought —
Grrrrrowl!
A sudden, loud protest from his stomach snapped him out of it.
It echoed embarrassingly loud in the quiet house.
Ayaan blinked, placing a hand over his belly as if to apologize for forgetting it existed.
He chuckled quietly to himself, shaking his head.
"Alright, alright, I get it," he muttered under his breath, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.
"Lunch time it is. Sheesh. No need to scream." he again muttered under his breath to himself
His slippers made soft flap-flap noises against the cool tiled floor as he shuffled toward the kitchen, moving like a man wading through water — heavy, a little slow, the warm air thick with the smell of sun-heated dust.
The fridge door squeaked a little when he opened it, revealing the sad, random collection inside.
He surveyed the options like a general studying his battlefield.
Some leftover rice in a container. Half an onion with the angriest, driest outer layer glaring at him. Three lonely tomatoes.
A pack of chicken he had thankfully remembered to thaw.
"Nothing fancy," he declared dramatically to no one.
"Just survival."
He grabbed what he needed and set to work, pulling out a pan and tossing the chicken into it with a satisfying sizzle.
The spices hit the oil next — a burst of turmeric, cumin, a pinch of red chili — and within minutes, the kitchen was filled with the mouth-watering scent of something actually edible.
Feeling a little proud, Ayaan leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms muttering to himself under his breath "Man versus kitchen: 1–0."
He tilted his head, enjoying the moment... until his eyes landed on the mess.
There were crumbs scattered on the table like tiny invaders.
A suspicious sticky patch near the sink that he didn't even want to investigate.
An army of dust particles doing a slow, victorious march across the shelves.
Ayaan groaned internally.
"I could ignore it..." he thought hopefully.
"And suffer tomorrow. Or..."
He closed his eyes dramatically like a man preparing for battle.
"...I could suffer now and be free later."
It was a miserable choice.
Still grumbling under his breath, he grabbed a cleaning cloth and tied a random kitchen towel around his head like a warrior preparing for war.
Thus began the Great Afternoon Battle.
Ayaan attacked the kitchen first, wiping down the counters with intense, unnecessary vigor.
The sticky spot near the sink fought back — no matter how much he scrubbed, it stayed stubborn, mocking him.
"You wanna do this the hard way, huh?" Ayaan muttered, narrowing his eyes.
He grabbed the heavy-duty cleaner from under the sink and sprayed it like he was wielding a weapon in some medieval war.
The sticky spot finally surrendered, but not without a few curses from Ayaan and a loud dramatic "Victory!" he whispered to himself.
He moved on to the shelves next, dusting them carefully, trying not to sneeze.
But he failed.
"Hh'HhH'CHHoo!..."
Ayaan bent over, sneezing so hard he almost headbutted the shelf.
He wiped his nose and sniffed. "This is how heroes die," he muttered darkly.
The living room wasn't any kinder.
Dust bunnies lurked under the sofa like tiny evil spirits.
He grabbed the broom and jabbed under the furniture, dragging out horrific clumps that looked like they could form their own country.
At one point, while trying to swipe under the bookshelf, the broom got stuck.
He pulled.
It didn't budge.
He pulled harder.
Suddenly — the broom jerked free, smacking him right in the forehead with a loud THWACK.
Ayaan staggered back, eyes wide, rubbing his forehead.
"Well," he announced loudly to the empty room."That's it. I'm suing."
Despite the small battles lost, after a while, Ayaan stepped back and admired his work.
The kitchen gleamed.
The living room looked semi-respectable.
His eyebrows weren't on fire.
Success!
And just in time, too — he sniffed the air.
The chicken smelled perfect.
His stomach roared in approval.
He grinned.
"Food, glorious food," he sang under his breath, doing a small victory dance that would have embarrassed him if anyone saw.
He turned off the stove, plated the rice and chicken, and carried it carefully to the table.
Finally.
Peace.
Food.
A clean house.
What could possibly go wrong now?
Ding-dong.
The doorbell rang.
Ayaan froze, plate halfway to his mouth.
He stared at the door like it had personally betrayed him.
"Are you kidding me?"
With a long, exaggerated groan, he set the plate down and shuffled to answer it.
Ayaan pulled open the door with a dramatic flourish, expecting some major delivery or perhaps a neighbor needing help with an emergency.
Instead, he was met with... nothing.
Well, almost nothing. But there was a small package sitting on the doorstep, with his name scrawled across it in large, slanted handwriting.
Ayaan picked it up slowly, suspiciously.
"Okay. A mystery package. Great. Just what I need."
He glanced up and down the empty street. No delivery person in sight.
With an exaggerated sigh, Ayaan stepped back into the house, the mystery package held carefully in his hands like it was about to explode.
He placed it on the counter, giving it a look that could only be described as "suspiciously curious."
"...Okay," Ayaan muttered.
"Not today, Satan."
He turned back to his lunch, just in time to hear a faint scraping noise coming from the kitchen.
Ayaan froze.
His hand gripped the doorframe.
What the—
The scraping noise grew louder.
Then came the unmistakable sound of a chewing noise.
A slow, deliberate munching.
A crunch.
And then — smack.
Ayaan spun around, eyes wide, heart pounding in his chest.
There was nothing but a shadow like figure standing in his kitchen.
Not just any shadow.
It was definitely not human.
The figure was roughly human-shaped, though slightly distorted. It had that eerie, ethereal quality that made Ayaan's spine tingle. The shadow was hunched awkwardly over the countertop, a small pile of leftover rice and chicken sitting in front of it.
But the worst part?
The figure had a mouth. A wide, gaping mouth full of food.Not just any food, but his food. The very lunch he had just prepared, the one that smelled so glorious, now being devoured by what appeared to be a ghost. Or... something.
Ayaan's brain could barely comprehend the scene in front of him.
"What in the world…?" he whispered, his voice shaky.
The shadow paused, mid-chew, its dark eyes flickering toward him. The figure's mouth was too stuffed to speak, but the way it looked at him — wide-eyed, a little guilty, and very full — made Ayaan's stomach twist with a strange mix of confusion, shock, and mild irritation.
Ayaan stared back, his jaw hanging loose.
"What are you— why—" he sputtered, unable to form a full sentence.
The figure blinked, and in an almost comical fashion, slowly chewed the last bite of his chicken. Very slowly.
Then, after swallowing with a loud gulp, the shadow finally spoke."Sorry," it said in a voice that made Ayaan's blood freeze.That voice. There was something eerily familiar about it, yet foreign, like hearing someone's voice underwater.
Ayaan's eyes narrowed."Wait a second... I think I know that voice..." he muttered to himself.
Before he could react, the shadow launched into motion, darting around the kitchen.Ayaan blinked. The figure was moving at lightning speed, with jerky movements, like it wasn't fully accustomed to this earthly plane.
"Oh, no, you don't!" Ayaan shouted, throwing his arms up dramatically.
And for the next moments the chase was on.
The next few moments were a blur.
Ayaan bolted after the shadow, his slippers skidding across the tile.He grabbed the broom from earlier, hoping to at least swat the ghost away.But every time he lunged for it, the shadow slipped out of reach, its movements graceful but oddly clumsy for something that wasn't supposed to exist.
Ayaan's heart pounded. His breathing came in short bursts.
"Stop! You freaking thief!" he yelled, snatching up a broom like a medieval warrior wielding a sword.
He sprinted after the shadow, nearly tripping over a poorly stacked pile of plates in the process.
The plates rattled dangerously but, by a lot of arm-flailing, they stayed put.
The shadow — that sneaky little creature — sped up, darting past him with the gleeful energy of a mischievous child on a sugar rush.It even dared to throw a cheeky glance over its shoulder, as if taunting him—
—and immediately slammed face-first into the wall with a loud THWACK.
Ayaan stumbled to a stop, blinking in shock."Oooh...that's gotta hurt."
The shadow, dazed for only half a second, shook its head violently like a cartoon character, then hurriedly scrambled back to its feet and bolted down the hallway again as if nothing had happened.
"Where do you think you're going?!" Ayaan bellowed, pointing the broom like an accusing finger.
But the ghost's answer was to vanish spectacularly, slipping through the tiny crack of an open door with the speed and elegance of a shadow sliding over a sundial.
Ayaan skidded to a stop at the hallway's end, staring at the door in disbelief.His mind raced.
"Alright, alright... you're gonna make me chase you, huh?" he muttered under his breath, tightening his grip on the broom like a man preparing for battle.
Without hesitation, he kicked off his slippers — they were slowing him down anyway — and took off barefoot like a determined, slightly unhinged sprinter.
The chase escalated to a level of absurdity Ayaan didn't know he was capable of.
He zipped through the living room, knocking over a lamp.The lamp wobbled dramatically for a few seconds...then toppled over with a loud clunk."Sorry, sorry!" he gasped, as if apologizing to the lamp would fix it.
The shadow zipped across the top of the couch, using it like a springboard.Ayaan tried the same thing — and faceplanted into the cushions.
"Mmphf—! This is NOT fair!" he shouted, spitting out a mouthful of sofa fluff.
The shadow was now parkouring across the furniture — bouncing off the coffee table, sliding along the banister, even swinging around a doorframe like a seasoned acrobat.
Meanwhile, Ayaan was doing his best...which basically meant running into every obstacle in the house at least once.
He stubbed his toe on a chair.
He banged his elbow against the corner of the wall.
He got tangled in the curtains like a very aggressive cat.
At one point, the shadow paused at the top of the staircase, wagging a finger at him as if scolding him for being slow.
Ayaan, huffing and puffing like he was running a marathon, nearly exploded.
"You wanna play games, huh?!" he yelled, chucking his broom at the shadow like a javelin.
The broom sailed through the air majestically — completely missing the shadow — and crashed harmlessly into a pile of laundry.
The ghost, in return, gave a cheeky little wave.
Finally, after what felt like three hours but was probably three minutes, Ayaan skidded into the living room again, panting like a dog after a long run in the sun.
He collapsed onto the floor, arms sprawled out dramatically.
"That's it. I give up," he gasped, waving a white napkin he found on the floor as a pathetic flag of surrender.
"You win. I'm done. Call it whatever you want — victory, theft, assault-by-shadow — I don't care anymore."
He lay there, defeated, staring up at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above him.
For a moment, everything was still.Silent.Calm.
Then — with the soft sound of something materializing — the shadow reappeared.
It came down slowly, almost shyly, and plopped itself down right next to him like a kid trying to pretend they hadn't just destroyed the living room.
Ayaan side-eyed it, still catching his breath."Seriously?" he muttered."You made me chase you around my own house like a crazy person and now you wanna hang out?"
The shadow shrugged — yes, shrugged — its weird, wispy shoulders rolling up and down in a helpless kind of way.
Ayaan groaned and closed his eyes.
"Fine. Whatever. Sit there. Eat my lunch. Wreck my house. Betray me emotionally. It's fine. I'm fine."
The shadow seemed almost...bashful.
Then, in a voice muffled by a mouthful of stolen rice, it said,"Look... I was hungry, okay?"
Ayaan turned his head slowly, peering at the figure.
And that's when he really looked.
The voice. The tone. The strange yet familiar way it spoke.
Recognition slammed into Ayaan like a frying pan to the face.
"...Wait.... Wait a second..."
The shadow's head tilted.
Ayaan sat up stiffly, his face pale."Is it...is it really you?!"
For a breathless moment, they stared at each other — human and ghost, old friends reunited under the most ridiculous circumstances.
And then —
Ayaan screamed.
The ghost screamed.
They both screamed.
In a synchronized panic, they scrambled in opposite directions like two cartoon characters freaking out over a mouse.
And somewhere deep inside the house, something fragile shattered.
Probably the last of Ayaan's dignity.
Ayaan and the shadow both screamed at the top of their lungs — one human, one... something else.
Their shrieks overlapped in perfect off-key harmony, like two broken car alarms fighting for dominance.
"AAAAAHHH!!"
"AAAGGGHHHH!!"
In pure panic, Ayaan flailed backward, smacking into the wall with a loud thud, knocking a dusty painting slightly crooked.The ghost shrieked again and jumped three feet in the air — literally floating midair like a traumatized balloon — before it crashed back onto the floor with a poof.
For a few seconds, they just stared at each other, panting heavily.
"You... you screamed too?" Ayaan finally gasped out, clutching his chest. "Aren't you supposed to be the scary one?!"
The shadow, looking absolutely offended, pointed a wobbly, smoky finger at itself, while it said,"Excuse me? I have rights too, you know!"
Ayaan wiped his sweaty forehead.He still couldn't believe what was happening."I... I thought you were gonna EAT me or something!" he blurted out.
The shadow crossed its arms — or whatever counted as arms — and gave a dramatic little huff, its smoky form puffing up like an indignant cat.
Then — to Ayaan's amazement — it plopped onto the floor beside him, legs stretched out like a tired child after recess.
An awkward silence hung in the air.
Ayaan cautiously edged a few inches away... then a few more... until he was basically glued sideways against the wall.
The shadow noticed and exaggeratedly scooted closer.
Ayaan stiffened.
The ghost scooted even closer.
Ayaan practically stopped breathing.
The ghost gave a raspy snort — was that... laughter?! — and finally broke the tension.
"...You still can't handle a little company, huh, yaan?"
The voice.The voice was muffled but familiar.
Ayaan's eyes widened.He whipped his head around to stare at the shadow.
"Wait... That name..." he said slowly, his heart thudding. "I... I know you..."His voice cracked embarrassingly.
The ghost, Jinn — or whatever it was — shrugged casually, as if saying, "Took you long enough."
Ayaan opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again — like a fish gasping for air."You..." he pointed dramatically. " But you stole my lunch!!"
The shadow gave a guilty little shrug... then shamelessly rubbed its belly.
No regrets.
Ayaan spluttered, half furious, half amazed."Bro. BRO. You ate my last chicken! You don't even have a digestive system!"
The ghost let out a wheezy chuckle, the sound eerily human yet smoky, like laughter carried on the wind.
"I missed real food, alright? Besides I already told you what we — my kind eats so why worry?" it said, almost sheepishly.
Ayaan slumped back against the wall, utterly defeated.
"...Great. I'm being haunted by a ghost with food cravings."
The shadow patted his shoulder like a proud parent consoling a hopeless child.
Ayaan sat cross-legged on the living room carpet, glaring murderously at the smoky figure.
He looked like a man personally wronged — the victim of a crime so heinous, so unspeakable, it had to be avenged.
In reality, the crime was chicken and rice.
Specifically, his chicken and rice, which had mysteriously vanished from his plate the moment he turned his back.
The ghost — or whatever it was — floated there with an expression of pure, wide-eyed innocence.
Well, as innocent as a shape-shifting blob of mist could manage.
"So," Ayaan began, voice slow and deadly, fingers steepled together like a strict principal about to hand out detention slips, "we're gonna set some ground rules."
The smoky figure tilted its head at him, a little warily, its misty edges rippling.
"But before that....are you a Jinn?"
The smoky figure just nod it's smoky head.
Ayaan held up one finger, dramatically.
"Alright now back to the rules. So rule number one," he declared."You do not, under any circumstance, touch my food again. Not even a sniff. Not even a casual, passing breeze across the plate. Understood?"
The ghost nodded so fast its entire body wobbled like a jelly pudding.
"Good." Ayaan narrowed his eyes, watching it suspiciously for any signs of rebellion.He raised a second finger.
"Rule number two. You will announce yourself when you enter a room. No more creeping around like I'm in a third-rate horror movie. I have enough trauma from YouTube jump scares, thank you."
The ghost attempted a stiff, clumsy salute.It overbalanced and spun around itself twice before righting its form again with a squeaky wheeze.
Ayaan gave a slow, unimpressed blink.
"And finally..." he leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "Rule number three.""If you're planning to freeload here — eating my food, drinking my soda, haunting my furniture — you better start paying rent."
The jinn froze mid-air.It stared at him, aghast, pointing to itself with a smoky tendril, and said: "ME?? Surely you jest, good sir!"
"Yes, you," Ayaan said firmly, poking it in the middle where he imagined its chest would be."You think electricity grows on trees? You think food falls from the heavens? My friend, this isn't a charity. Pay up or pack up."
The ghost started shaking its misty head in frantic refusal, little whimpers escaping it like a kid caught stealing cookies before dinner.
Ayaan smirked, folding his arms across his chest.
"You can pay in snacks," he said
magnanimously, "or hidden treasure, or, hey, if you happen to have a few gold bricks stashed away in some forgotten pirate ship, I'm not picky."
The ghost paused.It tilted its head upward, as if seriously contemplating raiding a shipwreck.
Ayaan chuckled under his breath.
"And by the way," he said, his voice turning sly, "you really picked the worst human to mess with."
The ghost tilted its head, confused, its mist swirling faintly in the sunlight leaking through the curtains.
Ayaan grinned wickedly.He pointed at himself with both thumbs.
"I'm not just some dude, okay? I'm an Imam. A Sheikh. Certified Exorcist Extraordinaire."
He stretched the last two words with relish, like a movie trailer announcer.
The ghost's smoky form hiccupped violently.A little puff of mist shot out like steam from a kettle.
"You heard me," Ayaan said, practically glowing with smugness."I got du'as locked and loaded. I have got Qur'an verses memorized that will send you back to your dimension. Try me."
The ghost squealed — actually squealed — and tried to flatten itself against the carpet like a terrified pancake.
Ayaan was about to laugh himself silly when the jinn, in a high-pitched, panicked voice, blurted:"Y-You didn't used to be this scary when we were kids!"
Ayaan's smirk dropped off his face like a stone.
He blinked, stunned. "What... did you just say?" he asked carefully.
The ghost froze.
The silence was thick enough to taste — dusty sunlight pooling around them, the slow tick of the wall clock filling the room.
"You said... when we were kids," Ayaan repeated slowly, almost tasting the words. "You and me."
The jinn immediately started babbling, "N-no, no! I meant, uh, metaphorically! Like, when humans were young! The species! Adam and Eve and—"
"Save it," Ayaan said, standing up. His heart was pounding in his ears now. "You're not getting out of this one."
The jinn shrank even smaller, looking ready to ooze under the nearest piece of furniture.
Ayaan squinted at it, memories stirring at the back of his mind — dusty playgrounds, the creaking of rusty swings, afternoons spent daring each other to do stupid, reckless things.
"...Wait a minute," he muttered, slowly putting pieces together. "You're that stupid little brat... the one who put worms in my sandals."
The ghost twitched.
"And dared me to climb the water tower."
The ghost made a tiny squeaking noise.
"You stole my favorite slingshot too!" Ayaan said, pointing accusingly.
The jinn sagged like a guilty puddle.
"But it was a really good slingshot," it mumbled under its breath, sounding shamefully fond.
Ayaan barked out a short, disbelieving laugh."You've gotta be kidding me."
He rubbed his forehead, pacing a small circle around the ghost, trying to wrap his head around it.
All this time...
He was not just been haunted by some random entity — he'd been visited by an old friend.A mischievous, thieving, rice-burgling old friend who always loved getting him in troubles and stealing his snacks.
He stopped pacing and stared down at the jinn, who was now pretending very hard to be invisible.
"I remember all of it," Ayaan said, his voice softer now. "The games. The fights. The stupid dares. You were always pulling me into trouble."
The ghost's form seemed to curl in on itself slightly, as if embarrassed.
"But..." Ayaan frowned. "There's something missing. Something I can't quite... grab."
The jinn peeked up at him, smoky tendrils curling nervously.
"You're not ready yet." it whispered.
As Ayaan opened his mouth to ask what that meant, the jinn floated up quickly and plopped itself dramatically onto the couch.
"Anyway!" it chirped in a falsely bright voice. "Since I'm a tenant now, I demand deluxe service! Maybe a little fridge in my room? Some beanbags? Ambient lighting?"
Ayaan stared at it, open-mouthed.
"You're negotiating now?"
"You said 'pay rent,'" the jinn said defensively. "This is part of my package deal!"
Ayaan buried his face in his hands.
"Brilliant," he muttered. "I live with a freeloading ghost who thinks he's at a five-star resort."
The jinn made a giddy little loop in the air.
"Five stars or no stars!" it declared grandly.
Ayaan slumped back onto the carpet with a groan, rubbing his face tiredly. Beside him, the shadowy figure of the jinn plopped down too, mimicking him so precisely that Ayaan had to snort a laugh.
A while later they just sat there for a while — two idiots, passing a half-eaten bottle of soda like battle-weary gladiators — as the golden afternoon sun stretched lazily across the room.
"So," Ayaan said eventually, glancing sideways. "You gonna tell me your name, you rice burglar?"
The jinn shifted, almost shyly. His smoky form wavered like a flame.
"You already know me," he said softly.
Ayaan's hand froze halfway to his mouth.
There was something about that voice... a teasing edge he hadn't heard in years...Playgrounds full of dust and daredevil games... promises whispered into cupped hands.
Slowly, cautiously, Ayaan said, "Ghaziwan...?"
The jinn immediately lit up, his smoky form puffing out in excitement like a firework.
"You do remember!" he chirped, practically vibrating.
Ayaan stared at him, heart thudding oddly in his chest.
"Not everything," he said gruffly, "but... yeah. You stupid little demon. You always used to dare me to climb up to the roofs and steal mangoes."
Ghaziwan laughed, the sound like warm crackling fire.
"And you used to chicken out halfway and blame me when we got caught!" he teased.
Ayaan barked out a laugh, thumping his head back against the couch.
"You were the bad influence," he grumbled.
"And you were such a crybaby," Ghaziwan shot back, wiggling like a victorious worm.
They broke into snickers, the air filling with a bittersweet warmth — like picking up an old photograph you thought you lost forever.
Ayaan grinned at him. "You know," he said, pointing at his own chest proudly, "I'm not just some scared kid anymore. I'm an Imam now. A Sheikh. Certified exorcist."
Ghaziwan gasped so dramatically he almost flipped backward.
"You?!" he cried, clutching his imaginary pearls. "A certified spirit-nuker?!"
"You bet," Ayaan said smugly. "I can easily send you back to you dimension if I wanted to."
Ghaziwan sniffled theatrically, wiping invisible tears.
"My own childhood friend... turned into a professional jinn bully."
They both cracked up again, wiping tears of laughter from their faces.
Just as Ayaan was catching his breath, his phone buzzed loudly on the table.
He squinted at it — an unknown number.
Then, picking it up, he heard a familiar voice crackle through the speaker: "YO, bigshot Sheikh! You forgot about us peasants down here or what?!"
Ayaan blinked — then burst out laughing.
"Qassim?!" he said, grinning wide.
"The one and only!" Qassim whooped. "Bro, where you been hiding? Thought you ran off and joined a monastery or something."
Ayaan shook his head, chuckling.
"Life happened, ya Qassim. What's up? You finally opening that biryani shop you always dreamed of?"
"Better," Qassim crowed proudly. "I'm getting married, habibi! Next Friday!"
Ayaan nearly dropped the phone.
"WHAT?! Since when?!"
"Since I found someone who thinks my face is tolerable," Qassim said, deadpan. "Miracles happen, brother."
Ayaan laughed so hard he had to hold his stomach. "Man, congratulations!" he said warmly. "You want me to come crash your wedding, huh?"
"Crash, dance, eat all my food — whatever," Qassim said. "But you better show up. No excuses, Sheikh sahab."
"I'll be there, InshaAllah," Ayaan promised, feeling an old, familiar happiness warm his chest.
They talked a few more minutes — catching up about old classmates, who moved away, who secretly married whom — before finally hanging up.
Ayaan set the phone down and turned — only to find Ghaziwan sulking, his smoky form drooping pitifully like a wet towel.
Ayaan blinked.
"What's with the face?"
"You're leaving," Ghaziwan muttered miserably, staring at the floor. "Again."
Ayaan opened his mouth, then closed it.
For a second, guilt poked sharply at him.
"I'm just going for a few days," he said gently. "Not forever."
Ghaziwan didn't answer — just floated a few inches off the carpet like a sad balloon.
Ayaan sighed, ruffling his own hair.
"I'll be back before you can miss me properly, ya rice thief."
Still, the little jinn looked like someone had stolen his candy.
Ayaan eventually stood, grabbing his prayer mat. "Listen, I gotta pray Asr. Try not to eat the couch while I'm gone."
Ghaziwan didn't respond, only floated away with a quiet huff.
Shaking his head fondly, Ayaan went to offer his prayer — feeling the calmness settle into his bones.
When Ayaan returned to the living room twenty minutes later, he stopped dead in the doorway.
The smoky jinn was gone.
In his place stood — an unfamiliar young man, maybe early twenties, with dusky skin, striking silver eyes, and messy black hair. He wore loose traditional clothes and carried... a tray.
An actual tray.
On it were steaming plates of food — chicken curry, fresh naan, a bowl of dates, even a glass of cold sweet lassi.
The boy grinned sheepishly.
"I thought..." he said shyly, "you might be hungry."
Ayaan stared at him, jaw slack.
"You — you — you turned into human?!"
The boy shrugged, looking awkward.
"Just... a little. Only for now. besides you know that we Jinns can take on any form we want, right?"
He shifted on his feet.
"Also I wanted to say sorry for earlier," he added quietly. "About the rice. And about... being jealous."
Ayaan blinked rapidly, heart suddenly a mess of emotions.
He walked forward slowly, took the tray — and clapped the boy hard on the shoulder.
"You're an idiot," he said affectionately. "But you're my idiot."
Ghaziwan's face broke into the sunniest smile Ayaan had ever seen.
"Now," Ayaan said, sitting down heavily, "you better not have poisoned this, rice criminal."
Ghaziwan snickered.
"No promises."
They ate together in the golden evening light, the house humming with a new, fragile, beautiful kind of peace.
The aroma of freshly cooked chicken curry hung thick in the small dining room, filling every corner with its warm, spicy scent. Beside the main dish, soft, steaming naan lay stacked neatly in a basket, the golden-brown surfaces glistening with a brush of butter.
A small bowl of ripe, glossy dates sat nearby, their sweetness tempting even after the heavy meal. To complete the feast, there was a tall glass of cold, sweet lassi — tiny droplets of condensation sliding down its sides.
Ayaan took a final bite of naan, scooping up the rich curry with practiced ease. He washed it down with a gulp of the lassi, savoring the creamy sweetness that cooled the spices still lingering on his tongue.
Leaning back in his chair, he let out a satisfied sigh and wiped his hands on a napkin. His muscles loosened; for the first time all day, he felt full, relaxed, and a little sleepy.
Across the room, Ghaziwan hovered near the window, unusually tense. His normally mischievous eyes darted toward Ayaan, then back to the street beyond the glass.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Ayaan joked lazily, swirling the last bits of lassi in his glass.
Ghaziwan didn't respond right away. His form — usually sharp and outlined like mist caught in moonlight — shimmered faintly, as if something unseen disturbed his very presence.
"You need to be careful," Ghaziwan said finally, his voice low and taut, almost a whisper.
Ayaan's brow furrowed. He set the glass down with a soft clink.
"Careful?" he echoed. "Careful of what? The wedding food giving me a stomach ache?"
Ghaziwan didn't smile. He just stood there.
"It's not the wedding," he said, drifting a little closer. "It's Lahore. Old things are stirring there... things better left sleeping."
Ayaan shifted in his seat, suddenly more alert. There was a weight in Ghaziwan's words — not the usual teasing or cryptic warnings he tossed around so casually. This was different.
"You're being dramatic again," Ayaan said, half-heartedly. But his voice lacked conviction.
Ghaziwan opened his mouth to say more, when suddenly —
CRACK!
A sharp, invisible snap tore through the room like a whip. The very air seemed to shudder.
Ayaan jumped to his feet, heart hammering against his ribs. His plate rattled slightly on the table.
"What the hell was that?" he hissed, scanning the room.
Before he could even process it, a heavy, unseen presence pressed down on them both — thick like a summer storm about to break. It was as if the room had filled with invisible watchers, their anger simmering just out of sight.
Harsh, scolding voices — too many to count — layered over each other, filling the space with an overwhelming chorus of reprimand. Ayaan couldn't catch the exact words, but the tone was unmistakable: furious, disappointed, commanding.
Ghaziwan shrank under the weight of it, his misty form curling inwards as though trying to protect himself.
"I'm sorry," he mouthed desperately to Ayaan, before being pulled — or perhaps pushed — into a shadowy corner of the room. His form flickered violently, struggling to stay visible.
Another crackling sound split the air, louder this time.
And with a final, painful twist, Ghaziwan vanished completely, swallowed by the darkness.
The scolding voices hung in the air for a few heartbeats more, then slowly faded, leaving a charged, uncomfortable silence in their wake.
Ayaan stood frozen, breathing hard. He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans, feeling the fine hair on the back of his neck standing on end.
"What kind of messed up...?" he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.
Still feeling the aftershocks of whatever had just happened, he stumbled to his prayer mat as the call for Esha prayer floated softly through the windows, a calming contrast to the earlier chaos.
Performing his wudu with cold water jolted him awake further, grounding him in something familiar, something stable.
He prayed slowly, deliberately — feeling each movement, each word — as if anchoring himself back to the real world. His sujood felt deeper tonight, heavier, as if the earth itself welcomed his surrender.
When he finished, he stayed seated on the mat, staring at the quiet shadows playing across the walls. Outside, the night was alive with distant sounds — the bark of a stray dog, the occasional rumble of a motorcycle speeding past — but inside, the house seemed to breathe only silence.
Ayaan folded his prayer mat neatly and stood up, stretching.
A heavy, unfamiliar weariness had settled into his bones, not just from the day's activities but from the strangeness that now clung to the corners of the room like unseen cobwebs.
Yawning, he flicked off the lights and climbed into bed, pulling the thin blanket over himself.
The breeze from the slightly open window stirred the curtains, carrying with it the scent of earth and night.
He stared up at the ceiling, trying to convince himself that Ghaziwan's warning was nothing — just a nervous jinn exaggerating as usual.
But deep down, he knew better.
As his eyes grew heavier, slipping toward sleep, a soft voice — neither dream nor reality — brushed against his mind.
Be careful, Ayaan... some doors, once opened, are not so easily closed.
A shiver ran down his spine.But exhaustion claimed him before fear could.
The darkness of sleep wrapped him in its deep, inescapable embrace.