the ones who watch

by brewingdusktales

The light had died hours ago.

Not with a flick, not with any warning. It just faded — the way tea cools in an untouched cup, the way people forget birthdays they once cried on. No one said “lights out.” It just went. They knew it would. That kind of silence had a schedule.

The room was now darker than thought.

Twenty taped squares. Some barely large enough to turn in. But no one moved much anyway. Movement was a luxury. Comfort, a rebellion.

And in the far end, like always, Aru sat. Not lying down like the others. She sat as if the floor had asked her to stay a while longer. Back straight. Ankles folded. Hands resting gently on her knees. One hand slightly stained with ink. She didn’t know when. In a posture as if she was immersed in deep thoughts.

She had made thirteen packets. Twelve, neatly stacked. Folded from old newspaper. Each containing a single green pea pod, tied with jute thread — tight, no fraying edges.

The thirteenth? It was still unfinished. Resting like a secret under her palm.

And she knew — without knowing how — that someone had noticed.

She’d always been like this. Observant to a fault. As a child, she once told her mother:

“Mumma, you missed a sock.”

Her mother had laughed and said,

“Aru, even the walls feel stared at by you.”

Now the walls didn’t laugh. Now they listened. It seems they have also learnt the skill of observation.

It was close to 3:00 a.m.

Or maybe later. Aru didn’t know. No clocks. No phones. Only the faint ticking of something metallic in someone’s bag nearby — a broken wristwatch maybe, its hands still trying.

She was wide awake. But not in the insomniac way. Awake like a deer half-asleep in the grass, ears twitching for the crack of a branch. Awake like someone who had learned, too early, that the worst things don’t knock.

The others? She couldn’t be sure. Some seemed to sleep, arms curled inwards like they were holding on to parts of themselves. One girl had cried earlier — silently, eyes open. Her name was Sanaa. No one had spoken to her since they got here. Not even Aru. Especially not Aru.

Somewhere, something buzzed faintly. Not the fan. That had died around midnight, its blades slowing like they’d lost the will.

No, this was softer. A hum. The kind of sound you don’t hear with your ears but with your skin. Aru felt it through her spine — like someone watching with breath, not eyes.

Then — footsteps.

Not shoes. Not boots.

Bare.

Unhurried. Soundless on stone but real. Measured. Like someone who had memorized every line on the floor.

They weren’t coming from the corridor. They were already inside.

Aru’s thumb pressed harder into the edge of the thirteenth packet.

She didn’t look up.

Whoever it was, they moved past most squares without pause. The air changed as they passed — like warmth leaving, not entering.

They stopped beside her. Close.

Then came the whisper. Low. Like a breath catching on cotton.

“Still awake?”

Not a threat. Not a question. More like a curiosity unfolding in the dark.

Aru didn’t flinch.

Silence held its breath.

Then another whisper, closer. Brushing past the shell of her left ear like an old memory:

“Why twelve?”

Now she looked up. Not fast — just enough.

She didn’t blink.

Her voice, when it came, was quieter than expected.

“Because thirteen’s not for them.”

The shadow didn’t move. But Aru could tell it was smiling. Not kindly. Not cruelly. Just... knowingly.

Then it stepped back. Soft retreat. One, two, three paces. Then stillness.

A faint rustle.

Paper.

When Aru glanced down, the thirteenth packet was untouched. But beside it lay something else.

A matchbox.

Old. Worn. Smudged with something that looked like old chalk. She slid it quietly toward her with one finger.

Inside — one matchstick.

Painted completely black.

When morning came, the fan didn’t start.

But something else did. Orders.

A sharp knock. Then a metallic clang as the door opened.

Same man in black kurta. Same basket in hand.

But today, there were only seventeen girls.

No one asked where the others had gone.

That was the rule. No questions.

Not because they were scared to break it — but because no one had ever explained it.

When rules don’t have words, they’re harder to disobey.

The man dropped the basket without speaking. It wasn’t the same as yesterday. This time, it had:

A coil of copper wire

Dozens of broken keychains

A pile of tiny glass beads

Safety pins, some rusted

A few red threads

He turned, said nothing, and walked away. This time, the hesitation didn’t last long.

One girl began threading beads. Another started sorting pins by size. Sanaa was folding the red threads like Rakhi. Her fingers trembled, but she kept at it. She didn’t cry.

Aru sat back.

The black matchstick was in her pocket now. Tucked into a fold she had stitched herself the night before with jute thread. She didn’t know why.

She didn’t need to.

Her hands moved with slow clarity. She took the copper wire and began shaping it — not coiling randomly, but writing with it. She bent it into symbols. Ones that meant nothing at first glance. But each shape was deliberate, balanced. Curves interlocked like a code.

No one spoke to her.

But someone was watching.

Always.

That night, Aru didn’t sit cross-legged.

She lay down. Flat. One arm over her eyes. The other loosely curled around the edge of the thirteenth packet — still folded. Still untouched. Still hers.

The matchstick was warm now. Like it had absorbed her thoughts.

Sometime around 2:45, the hum returned.

A different rhythm this time.

Like someone writing on the walls with chalk.

Scribble. Stop. Scribble again.

She didn’t move. Didn’t open her eyes.

Instead, she remembered something:

The last time her mother had cried.

It was not when Aru had left. Not when they fought. Not even during court hearings.

It was once — quietly — when Aru had brought home a matchbox with a bird drawn on it.

Her mother stared at it for too long. Then said,

“I used to collect these when I was your age.”

Present

Back in Room, a whisper brushed her cheek. Not a voice this time. Just air.

But she knew the question it was asking:

“Are you ready now?”

Aru didn’t answer.

She just held the black matchstick a little tighter.

To be continued.