Chapter 3: The Rooftop Watcher
Night unfurled its heavy cloak over Gulmohar Riveria, and Anay found himself once again seeking solace on the rooftop. As was his habit, Anay called Priya, They spoke idly—wistful talk of her coming to visit, of classes, of ordinary worries that seemed to belong to another life.
He stood at the very edge of the roof, elbows resting on the cool, rough concrete, eyes tracing the silhouette of the bungalow next door. The wind, still and uneasy, barely moved the shadowy outlines of the trees. His conversation with Priya lulled and meandered, but beneath it, Anay’s nerves felt stretched, attuned to every creak and rustle in the night.
Absentmindedly, he stretched his back, rolling his shoulders to shake off a shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature. Turning away from the edge, he scanned the rooftop behind him, his gaze catching on the tangle of wires and the solitary Wi-Fi antenna perched on the neighboring wall. For the briefest instant, the world seemed to pause—caught in a breathless, unnatural silence.
There, atop the antenna, sat a figure—a woman, or the shadow of one, draped in tattered black clothing that rippled despite the breathless air. Her posture was rigid, her back turned toward him, and though Anay could not see her face, an icy certainty crawled up his spine as he realized she was staring intently into the darkness beyond. The sight pierced him with primal fear, rooting him to the spot. His mind raced, heart hammering wildly, as the details seared themselves into his memory: the shredded fabric, the uncanny stillness, the sense of something ancient and sorrowful hovering just out of sight.
Panic finally broke his trance. Anay fumbled with his phone, muttering a hasty goodbye to Priya and cutting the call before she could respond. He barely remembered the flight down the stairs, only the desperate need to put as many walls as possible between himself and that impossible apparition on the roof.
Anay descended the stairs, his heart pounding in his chest as he tried to make sense of what he’d just witnessed. The image of the woman in tattered black clothes, perched on the Wi-Fi antenna, refused to leave his mind. He pushed open the door to his room, finding Shivam sprawled on his bed, scrolling through his phone. For a moment, Anay hesitated, uncertain how to begin.
“Shivam,” he said finally, his voice low, almost conspiratorial. “Something strange happened on the roof just now. I saw a woman in tattered black clothes, perched on the Wi-Fi antenna which is perched on the neighboring wall.”
Shivam barely looked up. “You probably imagined it,” he replied with a lazy shrug, dismissing Anay’s words as if they were nothing more than a leftover dream. There was no trace of curiosity, only the infuriating certainty of someone who hadn’t seen what Anay had. Anay wanted to protest, to insist that it was real, but the words caught in his throat. There was no proof, nothing but the chill that still clung to his skin and the echo of dread that lingered in his mind. With a sigh, he let it go, sinking onto his own bed and staring at the ceiling as the night closed in around them. If Shivam wouldn’t believe him, then maybe it was better to remain silent. For now.
Ink of Dread 
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