It came at half past one.
A single knock—measured, deliberate. Not frantic. Not weak. Just one clear sound that rang through the silence of the monsoon-soaked night.
Mira looked up from the pages of her book. The power had been out for hours, and only the flame of a dwindling candle lit her old bungalow. Outside, the village of Ratanpur was sleeping—its muddy lanes quiet, its rooftops slick with rain.
She froze. Another knock.
Still one.
Her house sat at the edge of the village, alone among the wet fields and swaying coconut trees. No one came here, not even by mistake.
Pulling her shawl tighter, Mira stepped toward the door. Her breath grew shallow, not quite fear but not curiosity either. It felt like recognition—like her soul already knew something was waiting outside.
“Who is it?” she called.
Silence.
Mira’s hand hovered over the latch. Her instinct whispered no, but her fingers disobeyed.
The door opened with a soft groan.
A man stood there.
He looked… wrong. Drenched from head to toe, hair plastered to his pale forehead. He wore an old black coat, the kind worn in British times, buttoned up to his neck. No shoes. No umbrella. Just a stillness in his posture that unsettled Mira more than any storm could.
And in his hands—he held something. A bundle, wrapped in coarse fabric. Carefully, like it could break.
“I’ve come a long way,” he said, his voice low. “And this is the last door.”
Mira felt the chill slip through her skin. “Last… what?”
“The last door I must knock on.”
She should have shut the door. Should have run, screamed, phoned someone—anyone. But her body stayed still. She stepped aside as if moved by strings.
He entered.
The stranger walked to her dining table, rainwater pooling beneath his feet. Gently, he unwrapped the bundle. Inside was a book.
Not ancient, but aged. Covered in worn red leather, its spine frayed. Mira gasped when she saw what was etched into it.
Her name. In her handwriting.
“This is yours,” he said.
She blinked. “What kind of joke is this?”
The man didn’t answer. He opened the book. Its pages were filled—dense writing in dark ink. Mira leaned closer. Then froze.
The entries… they were memories. Her memories.
The time she told a white lie about a student cheating in an exam—to protect a powerful parent. The time she ignored a bruised child who tried to speak but faltered. The envelope of money meant for the school’s midday meal fund that somehow disappeared during her oversight.
Small things.
Nothing monstrous.
Nothing worth punishment.
But they were all here. Page after page. As though her soul had been recording everything.
Her voice trembled. “How do you know this?”
The stranger tilted his head. “I don’t. You do.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong!” she snapped. “Not really! I didn’t hurt anyone!”
He closed the book.
“That’s the worst part, Mira. Neither did they. Not really. But one silence led to another. And now it’s too loud to ignore.”
She backed away. “Who are you?”
“I’m not death. I’m not punishment.” His voice softened. “I’m just the reminder.”
He walked toward the door again.
“At 2 a.m., the door closes. Forever.”
She stared. “What happens at two?”
He looked at her with something between sadness and certainty.
“You choose. To change—or to forget. If you choose to change, the book remains with you. Blank. Yours to fill differently. If you choose to forget, the book remains too. But it begins to write on its own. Until there’s nothing left of you outside its pages.”
The clock ticked behind her, loud and sharp.
1:36 a.m.
The man stepped outside. “I’ll be gone before the hour ends.”
She tried to call after him, but her voice wouldn’t leave her throat. The door shut on its own.
Mira stood in the middle of her small, cold house.
Alone.
With a book that knew her.
She opened it again. The pages felt heavier this time. She saw her father's disappointment when she didn’t come home for his last Diwali. The teacher she blamed for her mistake. The neighbor she never forgave.
Mira wept.
The pages blurred.
The clock ticked.
1:47 a.m.
She lit another candle. Took out a pen. Turned to the last page.
It was blank.
She wrote one sentence:
“I will not forget.”
The moment she finished, the ink shimmered, then faded. The entire book turned blank.
The candle flickered violently, then went out.
And then it was 2:00 a.m.
The door clicked, like a lock turning from the inside.
---
It’s been two years.
Mira still lives in the same house. She still teaches at the school.
But her students whisper that she’s different now.
She listens more. Questions more. Defends the shy. Challenges the loud. Some say she visits families quietly, carrying food or letters or apologies. Others say she stays up some nights, writing by candlelight.
No one knows what she writes. But she writes every night.
And every month, without fail, she leaves an envelope outside a house in the village. It always contains something strange—money that went missing long ago, a letter once stolen and lost, an unsigned confession.
The village doesn’t talk about it.
But the winds do.
And every time a knock echoes in the dead of night, somewhere far away, a door opens.
And another book begins.
React
