Riya Sharma hated nights.
Not because they were dark, but because they were quiet. Too quiet.
Quiet enough to hear every thought she didn't want to hear. Quiet enough to remind her how alone she really was. The unbearable, endless quiet that filled every corner of her small apartment once the world went to sleep.
During the day, noise protected her. Conversations, traffic, lectures and deadlines, everything blurred together and kept her moving forward. But nights stripped all of that away, forcing her to face herself.
The ticking of the wall clock echoed through the room, louder than it had any right to be.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Riya sat on the cold floor of her room, her back resting against the edge of her bed. Sheets of tracing paper were scattered around her like fallen leaves, others abandoned midway through their creation.The faint scent of graphite lingered in the air. Her mechanical pencil remained loosely clasped between her fingers, its once-sharp tip now worn dull from hours of use.
Her architecture submission was due in six hours. And it was still incomplete.
Her fingers ached from constant movement.The muscles in her wrist and shoulders felt stiff. Her eyes burned every time she blinked, dry from lack of sleep. But she didn't stop. She couldn't. She ignored the discomfort. Architecture didn't care if she was tired; deadlines didn't care if she was exhausted. Life didn't care if she was breaking quietly in the middle of the night. She had learned, over the past two years, that pain rarely disappeared simply because you acknowledged it. More often, it remained until you learned how to work around it.
She adjusted the tracing paper and leaned forward, forcing her trembling hand to continue the line. Precision. Control. Balance. These were things architecture demanded. Things she could still give, even when everything else in her life felt uncertain.
She glanced toward the clock. It confirmed what her body already knew. It was well past the point where she should have been asleep.
2:11 AM.
If she was lucky, she might get four hours of sleep. Maybe less. She leaned her head back against the edge of the bed and closed her eyes for just a moment. Hoping the gesture might offer some relief. Instead, it only made her more aware of her exhaustion. Her body begged for rest, her muscles heavy and drained. But her mind refused to cooperate. It never did. Because the moment she allowed herself to stop,Her thoughts drifted, uninvited, toward memories she spent most of her time avoiding and that memories returned.
Her father's voice. His laughter. The warmth of his presence that once filled every empty space in her life.
Gone.
One year. Exactly one year ago, the world had ended. She had stood in that hallway in India, a frozen spectator to her own tragedy, as the doctors spoke words that didn't make sense. Cardiac arrest. We did everything we could. I'm so sorry. One year since the warmth had left her life. Now she pursued architecture to stay connected to him. Her throat tightened at the memory, but she swallowed hard, forcing the emotion back down where it belonged. There was no space for weakness. Not now. Not ever again.
She snapped her eyes open and forced herself to focus on the drawing. Lines. Angles. Structure. Things that obeyed rules. Things she could control. Unlike life.
Her phone buzzed suddenly.
The sound cut through the silence like a blade. Her gaze lingered on the device, lying face-up on the cold floor. It was usually just a slab of glass and metal that served as a clock and nothing more. Riya froze, staring at the screen.
Unknown Number.
Her brows furrowed in confusion. At 2:17 AM?
Slowly, cautiously, she picked up the phone and unlocked it. Her fingers hesitated before opening the message. Two words:
Are you awake?
She stared at the screen, waiting for the words to rearrange themselves into something that made more sense. But they didn't. They stayed there, simple and direct. Her stomach tightened slightly. She checked the number again. It wasn't saved. There was no name. Just unfamiliar digits. She searched her memory for any reason the number might belong to someone she knew, but nothing surfaced.
No one texted her at night. In fact, almost no one texted her at all.
There were never messages from friends she didn't have, no missed calls, no notifications waiting for her attention.
No one ever asked if she'd reached home safely anymore.
That had been his job. When her father was alive, that message was a ritual, a steady, grounding presence in her pocket. "Reached home?" "Have you eaten?" "Don't work too late, Riya beta." Since he had gone, the silence had become permanent. Her mother was a world away, faithfully paying for her education, but they were no longer connected. The distance between them was more than miles; it was a heavy, wordless void. Riya had stopped expecting anyone to care about the mundane details of her survival a long time ago.
Until now.
The ticking of the wall clock seemed to double in volume.Tick. Tick. Tick.
This didn't concern her, she told herself. It couldn't. Her first thought was simple: It was a wrong number. It had to be a mistake.
She locked the phone and placed it back on the floor, wondering why someone would even text at this hour. Perhaps they were drunk, or it was just a lapse in judgment. Someone had likely entered a wrong digit while trying to text a girlfriend. She shook her head, dismissing the thought. "It didn't matter". She didn't reply to unknown numbers.
She returned her attention to the tracing paper. Her mechanical pencil hovered above the surface, waiting for direction, but her focus was gone. A quiet awareness took over, pulling her attention back to the silent phone even as she fought to ignore it.
Five minutes passed. Then ten.
Silence returned, settling into the room once more. She almost forgot about it. Almost.
Her phone buzzed again.
This time, her reaction was instant. She grabbed it without thinking.
Another message.
You should sleep. You have a submission today.
Her breath caught. Her fingers went cold. The words themselves were harmless, but their accuracy unsettled her. Her submission.
Her heart began to pound harder, faster, each beat louder than the last. Her eyes darted around the room instinctively, scanning the shadows as if expecting to find someone standing there. But there was no one. The door was closed. The curtains were drawn. The room was exactly as it had always been. Empty. "It had to be a coincidence, she told herself. Architecture students always had deadlines". But the reassurance didn't feel convincing. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She typed slowly.
Who is this?
She stared at the message, her thumb hovering over the send button.
Then she stopped. No. Don't engage. She deleted the text immediately and locked the phone, placing it back beside her. Her heart was beating faster now, her body tense with a strange, unfamiliar unease.Her mind working through possibilities she could neither confirm nor dismiss. She considered replying, if only to clarify the sender's identity, but hesitation stopped her. Engaging with strangers rarely led to anything worthwhile.
She placed the phone back down once more, though the unease remained.
When the phone vibrated again, the sound no longer startled her. It felt inevitable.
Don't overwork yourself.
Her breath caught. This wasn't random. This wasn't a drunk stranger. This wasn't coincidence.This was intentional. Someone knew.
Someone was watching her life close enough to know her routine. A strange mix of fear and something else settled inside her. Not danger. Not exactly.
Just presence.
She didn't know how to explain it. She stared at the number. Her fingers trembled slightly. The message was brief, but it carried an uncomfortable familiarity. She picked up the phone, her grip tighter now, and allowed herself to type a reply.
Riya: Who is this?
The response arrived almost immediately.
Unknown Number: I'm no one.
The answer provided nothing, yet it lingered in her thoughts. It was evasive in a way that suggested intention rather than confusion. She should have blocked the number. She understood that clearly. And yet, she did not.
Another message appeared.
Unknown Number: Finish your drawing. The left corner is still incomplete.
Her blood ran cold. Her eyes moved instinctively to the submission sheet beside her. The left corner remained unfinished, its lines faint and tentative.
She felt a sudden awareness of her surroundings, as though the apartment had shifted subtly around her. The door remained closed. The curtains were drawn securely over the window. No one could see inside. Nothing had changed. Her fingers tightened around the phone. Fear crept up her spine. Real fear. She typed quickly.
How do you know that?
The question left her before she could reconsider it. Her heart pounded in her ears.
The reply came after a brief pause.
Unknown Number: Because I'm here.
She sat perfectly still, her gaze moving slowly across the room. Every shadow appeared deeper than before, every surface unfamiliar in its stillness. The rational part of her mind insisted that there was a reasonable explanation, one she had not yet identified. But rationality did little to calm the unease settling inside her chest.
She typed one final question.
Riya: Where?
No response followed.
The phone remained silent, its screen dark once again. Whatever presence had existed moments earlier had withdrawn without explanation, leaving her alone with the echo of its absence.That silence returned.But now it was different. Now it was alive.
She remained awake for the rest of the night, though she accomplished little more work. Her attention drifted constantly, pulled toward the phone even when it showed no sign of life. The silence had returned, but it no longer felt empty. It carried weight now, shaped by the knowledge that it could be interrupted at any moment.
For the first time in two years, someone had reached into her solitude and acknowledged her existence. She did not yet know whether that was something to fear. Or something far more dangerous.
Somewhere else in the city, a phone screen dimmed to black.
He placed the device on the desk.
His eyes returned to the laptop screen.
The small camera feed showed her apartment clearly.
Riya was still awake.