Aarav had always found comfort in quiet corners. While others thrived in the loud hum of conversations and laughter, he felt most at ease in solitude, where thoughts could breathe without interruption.
But silence had a way of whispering back.
It started one evening in his favorite café, a small place tucked between two bustling shops. As he sipped his black coffee and read his book, he felt something shift. A shadow in the corner. A figure that hadn't been there before. He blinked, and it was gone. Just his imagination, he told himself.
At work, the air felt different. The hum of computers, the murmurs of colleagues—it was all normal. But when he put on his headphones, drowning out the noise, he heard it. A faint whisper. Not music, not static. A voice.
"Aarav..."
He yanked the headphones off, heart pounding. No one was near. The whisper had come from inside his head—or had it?
The nights grew restless. In his apartment, the shadows lengthened unnaturally. The hallway light flickered. His dreams became nightmares—visions of faceless figures standing at the foot of his bed, their silence suffocating. He woke drenched in sweat, the whisper still echoing in his ears.
One evening, he confided in Maya, the barista at the café. She listened, eyes dark with concern. "You're not alone," she said. "I've heard things too. Seen things."
Her voice trembled as she described shadows moving against walls, whispers calling her name in empty rooms. "It started after closing up one night. I thought it was exhaustion, but..." She trailed off. "Something is here, Aarav."
Determined to find answers, they began researching. The building had a history—strange disappearances, inexplicable deaths. The deeper they dug, the darker the truth became.
One stormy night, they stayed late at the café, determined to face whatever lurked in the shadows. The power cut out. The doors slammed shut. And the whispers grew into screams.
Aarav and Maya huddled together as the darkness thickened around them. The café’s walls trembled, and the whispers transformed into wailing cries. Then, from the depths of the shadows, figures began to emerge—faceless, featureless, and reaching.
Maya grabbed Aarav’s arm. "We need to go!"
They stumbled toward the door, but it wouldn't budge. The air grew heavy, pressing down on them like an unseen force. Then Aarav spotted it—a faint inscription carved into the counter, glowing dimly in the dark: Speak no truth, hear no fate.
Aarav hesitated, something inside him stirring. "Maya, what if... what if they don’t want us to talk about them?"
She gasped. "Then we have to listen."
Slowly, they fell silent. The wails continued, rising in intensity, but the moment they ceased speaking and moving, the room grew still. The figures halted, hovering inches from them, shifting restlessly. A test, Aarav realized. The whispers had fed on fear, on acknowledgment.
Then, the door creaked open. A gust of cold air rushed in, and the figures dissolved into the darkness. Without hesitation, they ran.
Outside, the night was eerily calm. The café stood just as it always had, its lights flickering back to life. But they knew better—nothing was the same.
The next day, Maya found an old newspaper article confirming their worst fears. The café had once been a meeting place for a secret society, one that had performed rituals of silence, believing speech could summon an ancient entity. Those who broke the silence had vanished, their voices absorbed into the whispers.
Aarav and Maya never spoke of that night again. But sometimes, in the quiet, they still heard the whispers.
As the days passed, Aarav began noticing changes in himself. The silence seemed to follow him, deepening, pressing against his thoughts. Conversations with coworkers grew difficult—words felt heavy, his voice rasped, strained. Maya, too, was withdrawing. Her eyes darted toward unseen figures, her hands trembled when she poured coffee.
One evening, Aarav caught his reflection in the café window and recoiled. His face was paler than before, his features slightly blurred at the edges, as if reality itself struggled to define him. When he turned to Maya, she avoided his gaze. "It's happening to us, isn't it?" he whispered.
She nodded, her voice barely audible. "We acknowledged them. We let them in."
Desperation took hold. They scoured ancient texts, reaching out to historians and occult specialists. A single clue emerged—a reversal. If the whispers thrived on acknowledgment, perhaps they could be undone through absolute denial.
That night, they returned to the café, armed with candles and a single plan: to reclaim their existence through silence. As the figures emerged, Aarav and Maya stood firm, eyes closed, ignoring their presence. The whispers turned into roars, a cacophony of rage and pleading, but they did not flinch. The figures grew agitated, shifting, unraveling.
Then, in an instant, there was silence.
When Aarav opened his eyes, the café was normal. The air was still. Maya stood beside him, whole, her features sharp once more. They had won.
Or so they thought.
Weeks later, as Aarav lay in bed, a single whisper slipped through the silence, curling into his ear like a breath of wind:
"We remember you..."
That night, he dreamt of the figures again. Only this time, they had faces—his own. Reflections of himself and Maya, staring back with empty, soulless eyes. The whispers had changed. They no longer begged, no longer screamed. Instead, they laughed, a sound so cold it made his blood freeze.
Maya called him the next morning, her voice barely a whisper. "They’re still here, Aarav. I can feel them inside my head. They know we tried to erase them. And now... they’re erasing us."
His hands trembled as he looked into the mirror. His features were fainter now, his voice thinner when he spoke. He picked up a pen and tried to write his name—but the letters faded the moment he formed them, vanishing like breath against glass.
Panic surged through him. "We have to do something," he whispered. But even as he said it, the words felt stolen, devoured by the silence creeping in.
The next day, Maya was gone. Her apartment was empty, her belongings untouched. It was as if she had never existed.
Aarav knew his time was running out.
And then the final horror struck him. His last memory, flickering at the edge of his fading mind—he had never actually left the café that night. The figures had taken him, consumed him. Everything since then had been an illusion. Maya was gone because she had never truly escaped either.
As reality collapsed around him, Aarav finally understood: he had been nothing but another whisper all along.
The silence swallowed him whole.
Somewhere, deep in the shadows, the whispers continued.
