Outside, the night had sunk deep into silence.
It was nearly 2:11 a.m. — that strange hour where even the wind forgets to move, and the world feels paused.
In the corner lab of Delhi University's old research wing, a single desk lamp glowed — soft orange, flickering slightly, like it was also unsure if it should still be on.
Ishaan Malhotra stood by the window, tall and still — a figure carved from calm.
His curly hair was tousled, yet deliberate, like someone who never cared but somehow always looked like poetry. His sleeves were rolled up, arms crossed, as he stared at the document in front of him like it had just whispered a secret.
The lab was littered with files marked "dismissed." Ghost sightings. Divine energy cases. Temple illusions.
But this one — no stamp. Just one handwritten line on the dusty cover:
"NIDHIVAN – DO NOT PURSUE."
"So dramatic," he muttered with a dry chuckle. "Makes it sound like it bites."
He opened it.
Inside: jagged sketches of twisted trees, accounts of people losing their voice, and a black-and-white image of an empty jhoola swinging — though no wind was recorded that night.
Ishaan raised an eyebrow. "Unrecorded natural frequencies? Or just… mass hysteria?"
The file was absurd. So obviously fake.
So why did the air feel heavier tonight?
Click.
The glass door creaked open.
"Wow. Even ghosts would've slept by now," came a voice — dry, annoyed, and very much alive.
Aarohi stepped in. Messy bun, smudged kajal, hoodie sleeves pulled over her cold fingers.
She wasn't consistent, and she wasn't calm.
But she was loyal — in the most chaotic, emotional, maddening way.
"You're seriously reading haunted files at 2 A.M.?"
Ishaan didn't look up. "Research doesn't sleep."
"Neither do regrets," she muttered, handing him a thermos.
Their fingers brushed.
She flinched. He didn't.
"You okay?" he asked — genuinely, but without the tone.
"I'm always okay. And also never okay. Depends on the moon," she said flatly.
Ishaan smiled faintly. Aarohi — unstable, unpredictable, and uncensored — was probably the only storm he had ever allowed into his still water.
She leaned closer, eyeing the file. "Nidhivan? Isn't that the Krishna place where people say trees dance or something?"
"Or something," he echoed.
Aarohi stared at the cover. Her voice dropped, suddenly serious.
"You sure you want to open that?"
"Already did."
A pause.
Then — a sound.
Faint.
Barely there.
A bansuri.
So soft, it felt more like a thought than a sound.
Aarohi looked at him. "Tell me you heard that."
Ishaan didn't respond.
The lab light flickered once.
Somewhere inside the file, a page turned on its own.