That night, the power went out.
No warning. No windstorm. No flickering lights. Just a clean snap of darkness that swallowed the room whole.
I sat up in bed, heart thumping harder than it should. I wasn't afraid of the dark — not anymore. But this? This silence wasn't natural. It wasn't even quiet. It was listening.
I pushed the bedsheet aside and walked to the window. The whole street was blacked out, like someone had erased it. No porch lights, no bike headlights, not even the buzz of old tube lights from the neighbor's balcony.
Just shadows.
Heavy and still.
I turned around slowly, half-expecting someone to be in my room.
Empty.
Still, I reached for the torch in my drawer — the one I knew would be there.
It was. But the batteries were dead.
Of course.
I opened the door, stepped into the hallway. The floorboards groaned under my weight, too loud in the hush.
From the kitchen came the faintest sound — like a spoon brushing against a plate.
"Mom?" I called out, softly.
No answer.
I walked toward it anyway.
The kitchen was empty. But not untouched.
The cabinet door was slightly open, one that was always shut. A glass lay on the counter, wet, as if someone had just used it.
But no one else was awake.
My breath felt tighter now.
I turned to leave — but paused.
Because on the wall near the fridge, written faintly in chalk, were three words:
"YOU CAME BACK."
I stepped closer. Touched the writing. Still fresh.
A chill ran through me.
Was this part of the time glitch?
Had I left myself a message? Had someone else noticed me slip through the cracks?
I didn't remember this happening before.
I didn't remember any of this.
The next morning, the power was back.
My mother was humming again. The same old Hindi tune.
I asked her if the lights had gone out.
She blinked. "What? No, not at all. Must've been a dream."
She handed me a plate of toast. Smiled like nothing had changed.
But when I walked back into the kitchen a few minutes later, the chalk writing was gone.
Clean wall.
Scrubbed, silent, spotless.
On my way to school, I kept glancing behind me. Not because I thought someone was following me.
But because the world felt… different. Tilted.
People were smiling too wide. A dog that always barked at me didn't even look up.
Even Harish seemed more alert, like he felt it too. Like we were inside something neither of us had chosen.
During lunch, I finally asked him, "Did anything weird happen to you last night?"
He stared at me. Really stared.
Then leaned closer and said quietly, "What do you mean by 'weird'?"
That night, I checked the wall again.
Nothing.
But I couldn't shake the feeling that the message wasn't meant to scare me.
It was a reminder.
That someone — something — knew I was here.
That this borrowed yesterday wasn't just mine anymore.
The sky didn't blink.
And I couldn't either.