Leaving the blood-stained writing on the wall behind, Ayan ran.
Riyan's room was on the third floor of the hostel. As he climbed the stairs, a single thought echoed in his chest—there is still time, there is still time.
Room 307.
He pounded on the door with his fist.
"Riyan! Riyan, open the door!"
There was no response from inside.
Ayan struck again. Harder.
"Riyan!"
The door to the adjacent room cracked open. A boy peered out, eyes heavy with sleep.
"What's going on, brother? Do you know what time it is?"
"Where is Riyan? Is he in his room?"
"I think he was there a moment ago," the boy muttered irritably and shut the door.
Ayan didn't stop. He hammered on the door relentlessly.
Finally, the door opened.
Riyan stood at the threshold. His eyes were groggy, wearing a simple t-shirt.
"At this hour, what—"
Ayan didn't let him finish.
His gaze was fixed behind Riyan.
In the corner of the room, within the darkness—there was something.
A shadow.
But there was no light in the room to cast a shadow. Yet it was there—dense, thick, and moving slowly.
Toward Riyan.
"Riyan, get out," Ayan said.
"What?"
"Get out right now!"
Riyan was about to laugh—perhaps to make a joke. But something in Ayan's voice stopped him.
He took one step out.
At that exact moment, the shadow elongated.
Fast.
Ayan didn't think twice.
With all his strength, he shoved Riyan.
Riyan was thrown backward. Instinctively, his hands flew up and grabbed the pipe in the corridor—an old iron pipe running along the ceiling of the hostel.
Riyan was hanging in the air.
Ayan looked back for a split second.
The shadow inside the room had frozen.
It stopped at the threshold as if unable to cross an invisible boundary.
A moment passed.
Then, the shadow receded into the darkness and vanished.
Ayan exhaled.
"Riyan, come down."
Riyan was still hanging from the pipe, his feet two feet off the floor. His face was a mask of confusion and pain.
Ayan reached out. Riyan climbed down.
As soon as his feet hit the floor, Riyan spun around.
"What the hell did you do?"
"Riyan, listen—"
"Listen to what?" Riyan's voice rose. "Why did you push me? Did I do something to you? Did I have a fight with you?"
"Riyan, in your room—"
"What about my room!" Riyan gestured wildly. "You break down my door in the middle of the night, then push me so I'm hanging from the ceiling! Have you gone mad? Truly insane?"
"To save you—"
"Save me from what?" Riyan stepped closer. There was anger in his eyes, but beneath it lay something else—fear. "What was there? What did you see that I didn't?"
Ayan didn't answer.
He knew what would happen if he did.
Riyan paused. Then he spoke softly, "If you can't tell me... then don't ever do this in front of me again."
Noise filled the corridor.
The doors of the adjacent rooms were cracking open one by one. Sleepy students were peeking out—who was screaming, what had happened.
Riyan noticed.
He glanced at Ayan one last time. Then he turned, entered his room, and shut the door.
Just the sound of a click.
The other boys peered around for a while before retreating back into their rooms.
The corridor was empty again.
Ayan stood alone.
He looked at Riyan's closed door. Then at the ceiling pipe. Then at the floor.
He had done the right thing.
Riyan was alive.
Yet, his chest felt strangely hollow.
He walked slowly back to his own room.
Tasin and Shanto were asleep.
Ayan didn't sit on the bed. He went straight for his bag and pulled out the notebook.
This time, it opened on its own.
He turned the pages.
All previous writings had vanished. The pages were white.
Then, slowly, a single line began to emerge.
"Everything has a price."
Ayan stared at the page.
Price.
The price of what?
He couldn't understand—he only felt a heavy sensation crushing his chest, as if something had happened or was about to happen.
Just then, his phone rang.
The screen read: Dad.
3:00 AM. His father never called at this hour.
Ayan's hand trembled slightly.
He picked up.
"Yes, Dad—"
There was silence on the other end.
Then, a sound.
Not a sob. Something heavier—the sound of a person's breath breaking apart.
"Dad?"
"Ayan..."
He didn't recognize his father's voice. This wasn't the voice he knew—the angry, firm, decisive voice. This was a different voice.
The voice of a broken man.
"Dad, what happened?"
A long silence.
Then his father spoke—
"Your sister... your sister is no more."
Ayan didn't move.
He didn't breathe.
"What... what are you saying, Dad?"
"Suddenly... the doctor said heart... no one could understand anything..."
His father's voice cracked.
The phone almost slipped from Ayan's hand.
He managed to hold on.
"When?"
"Tonight. Just a little while ago."
Ayan calculated.
Just a little while ago.
At the exact moment he had pushed Riyan to save him.
Right then.
He looked at the notebook.
"Everything has a price."
The rest of the words weren't reaching his ears. His father was talking, perhaps crying, perhaps saying something—Ayan couldn't hear him.
He just sat there.
Phone in hand.
And before him, in the open notebook, that one single line.
"Everything has a price."
The price for saving Riyan.
His sister.