Ruhan sat by the window the next morning, staring out as life rolled forward like nothing had changed.
The milkman honked. The dog across the street barked at a bicycle. Two kids from down the lane raced each other, schoolbags bouncing against their backs.
But none of it reached him.
Because something inside him had shifted — again.
He'd dreamt of the girl with the drawing. Not her face, not her voice — just her hands. Pale fingers smudged with charcoal, tracing shapes in the air like she was drawing without paper.
She whispered something he couldn't understand. And when he woke, his palms were black with ink.
He washed them twice. It didn't come off.
At school, the others greeted him like usual. Arav slapped his shoulder. Nivya passed a joke. Ira tossed a crumpled paper into his lap that read:
"Don't look so haunted. You're starting to scare the teachers."
He smiled weakly. But the truth itched at him: they didn't remember.
Not the storm.
Not the tears.
Not the collapse.
Even Ira — whose eyes once carried echoes of the same returning — now laughed like none of it had ever happened.
During lunch, he asked casually, "Hey… do you remember the blackout last March? When the power went out for a full day and the phones died?"
Nivya blinked. "There was a blackout?"
Arav frowned. "Bro, March? That's like… exam time. Who remembers anything?"
Ruhan turned to Ira.
She bit into her sandwich, chewed, and said, "You okay?"
That was her answer.
He excused himself, heart pounding.
It wasn't just about remembering or forgetting.
They were forgetting again.
Piece by piece.
The world was sealing shut.
He messaged Samaya during free period.
R: They don't remember. Even Ira. It's like it's vanishing again.
S: It does that. Like water slipping through your hands. But we can hold onto it longer now. You noticed that?
R: How do you mean?
S: Last loop, I barely made it three days before forgetting who I was. This time I'm on day 11. It's getting better. Like something wants us to remember.
Ruhan stared at the screen. Day 11.
He hadn't counted.
But yes — time was holding still, just long enough for him to feel the cracks.
That evening, he walked home through the railway tracks instead of the road.
The platform was empty. The grass swayed gently, whispering secrets in a language he hadn't yet learned.
He sat down, dug into his pocket, and unfolded the scrap of paper he'd carried all day.
On it, he'd drawn the lighthouse again.
He didn't know why.
Didn't know if it was from his memory — or hers.
But he kept adding to it.
A bird. A broken bell. A wave too high to survive.
He heard footsteps behind him.
Turning, he saw Samaya.
She didn't wave. Just walked over and sat beside him.
"You're forgetting something too, aren't you?" she asked quietly.
He nodded.
"Then hold onto me until you remember," she whispered.
And just like that, in the stillness of fading light, Ruhan didn't feel alone.
The world was forgetting. But they wouldn't.
Not yet.
Not together.
And maybe, just maybe — if they remembered long enough — they'd finally find her.