The courtyard of Senior Secondary Holy Model School sprawled under a late afternoon sun, its cracked concrete baking in the heat. Red-brick walls rose like a fortress, stained with years of dust and defiance, trapping the drone of voices spilling from open classrooms. A rusted railing jutted from the edge of the upper walkway, cool against the palms of a boy leaning there, his silhouette sharp against the fading light. Dark eyes scanned the crowd below—students in crumpled uniforms weaving through the chaos, their laughter cutting through the haze. His faded jacket hung loose on narrow shoulders, a backpack slung low with the weight of books he rarely touched.

The bell shrieked, a jagged sound that sliced the air, signaling the end of another day. The crowd thinned, footsteps echoing off the bricks as boys kicked a dusty football across the yard, shouts bouncing between them. He stayed put, fingers curling around the rail, an observer in a world that moved without him. There was a hum in his head, faint but persistent, like the murmur of a tide he'd never seen. He tilted his head, trying to shake it, but it clung like a shadow.

"Oi! You coming or what?" A voice punched through the noise, brash and edged with a grin. A broad-shouldered boy with a mop of dark hair jogged closer, wiping sweat from his brow. The watcher shrugged, lips twitching into a half-smile. 

"Maybe tomorrow," he said, voice low, already turning away. 

The other boy laughed, sharp and careless. "Yeah, right, Aadi. Always tomorrow with you." He waved a hand and sprinted off, rejoining the pack. Aadi. The name settled into the air, unremarkable yet heavy, like a stone dropped into still water. He watched them go, then lifted his gaze to the sky—purple bruising through Delhi's smog, a weight pressing down on the city.

The walk home was a blur of routine: past the chai stall where old men bickered over cricket scores, through an alley where stray dogs nosed at overturned bins, up creaking stairs to a flat that smelled of cumin and dust. Inside, a wiry man with graying hair scrolled through his phone, muttering about deadlines, while a woman hummed an old tune, folding laundry with practiced hands. They'd raised him since he was ten, piecing together a life from scraps—a bed, a story about floods, a name. "A miracle," she'd say sometimes, her eyes soft. He never asked for more. The holes in his past were just shadows he'd stopped chasing.

Dinner passed in silence—dal and roti, the clink of spoons against plates. He ate without tasting, staring at a crack in the wall that seemed to widen as he watched. The hum flared, sharper now, pulsing behind his eyes. He winced, pressing a palm to his temple. 

"You okay, beta?" the woman asked, pausing mid-fold. 

"Yeah," he lied, nodding. "Just tired." 

She frowned, unconvinced, but let it drop. The man glanced up, his gaze lingering too long, then returned to his screen. Excusing himself, he slipped into a small room—mattress on the floor, desk cluttered with pencils, a window rattling in the wind. He collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. The hum wove into whispers, words he couldn't catch—something about a rock, a sea, a heartbeat not his own.

Sleep dragged him under, heavy and restless. In the dream, he stood on a shore—black sand gritty under bare feet, waves crashing from a sea vast and alive. A voice whispered its name—Sindhu Sagar, the Sea of Indus—though he didn't know how he knew. The sky split, a streak of fire falling, a glowing shard striking the water with a soundless roar. He reached out, fingers brushing something cold and jagged, and then—

He jolted awake, gasping, sweat soaking his shirt. The clock blinked 3:17 a.m., red digits glaring in the dark. The room was still, but the air felt thick, electric. The whispers lingered, curling at the edges of his mind. He stumbled to the window, shoving it open. The city sprawled below, a maze of streetlights swallowed by haze. Nothing stirred. Yet the feeling of being watched prickled his skin.

Morning came too soon, dragging him back to school. The courtyard buzzed, but the air felt wrong—eyes tracking him, sharp and heavy. Whispers followed, not from his dreams but from the students around him, words hissed between cupped hands: "Photo… locker room…" By midday, it crashed over him. A grainy image flickered across phone screens—a blurry figure in a faded jacket, timestamped last week, near the girls' locker room. His jacket. His name—Aadi—tangled in accusations he couldn't unhear.

A girl approached at lunch, her smile too bright, too sharp. "Rough day, huh?" she said, leaning against the railing beside him. Dark hair fell in waves, her eyes glinting with something unreadable. They'd been close once, or so he'd thought. Now, she was a puzzle he couldn't solve. 

"What's going on?" he asked, voice tight. 

She tilted her head, feigning surprise. "You tell me. People are saying things. Bad things." 

He clenched his fists, the hum roaring in his skull. "I didn't do anything." 

"Maybe," she said, stepping closer, her voice a whisper. "But they don't care about the truth, do they?" 

Before he could respond, the principal's voice crackled over the intercom, summoning "Aadi Sharma" to the office. The courtyard hushed, every stare a blade. As he walked away, her laugh trailed him—soft, cold, a sound that didn't belong.

That night, the dream returned. The sea. The rock. The whispers. But now, a shadow moved beneath the waves, vast and alive. When he woke, the clock was frozen at 3:17 a.m., its digits unblinking.

Something was watching. And it wasn't letting go.