Some places don't speak. They hum.
And sometimes, that hum sounds like a bansuri — soft, shapeless, and just wrong enough to feel real.
Aarohi woke up at 3:04 a.m.
Not because of a sound, but because of the silence.
"Why is it so damn quiet?" she whispered. "Even my thoughts are echoing."
The fan was still.
Her window — open.
Her breath? Uneven.
Then she saw it.
A single peacock feather, lying on her bedside table.
She blinked.
"Okay. Nope. I'm not hallucinating. Not on three hours of sleep and one weird chai."
She picked it up. It shimmered slightly. Cold to the touch.
Aarohi didn't scream. She rarely did.
But she ran.
Ishaan opened his door to see her standing there, feather in hand, hair in full chaos mode.
"Did you sneak this in as some kind of Krishna-prank?" she hissed.
"You think I carry peacock feathers around?"
"I don't know! You believe in nothing and still ended up in Vrindavan! Anything is possible!"
He took the feather. Examined it.
"This isn't new," he murmured. "It's… ancient."
And just then, they heard it.
A single, long flute note.
Not outside.
Not inside.
But somewhere… between.
Next morning, Vivan Rajput was waiting near the temple steps again.
Calm, as usual. But his smile was thinner.
"It's begun," he said softly.
"What has?" Ishaan asked.
"The Hour. It's preparing you."
"Yeah well, I'd prefer not to be prepared by paranormal bansuri spam," Aarohi muttered.
Vivan held out a torn page — brittle, yellowed, bloodstained at the corner.
"These are the Rules of the Forbidden Hour," he said. "They don't appear to everyone. But the feather… it chose her."
Aarohi blinked. "I didn't ask to be chosen. I can barely choose what to eat."
⚠️ THE RULES (now visible to Aarohi)
1)Leave Nidhivan before 12:00 AM.
2)Do not look at the Tulsi trees for more than 5 seconds.
3) If you hear the flute once, ignore it.
4) If you hear it twice, pray.
5) If you hear it thrice, do not move. Not even your eyes.
6) Write nothing between 12:00 AM – 12:41 AM. Not even in your head.
7) If you see a figure in yellow robes… don't speak. Just close your eyes.
Aarohi slowly stepped back. "This… is a cult rulebook. This is literally a Krishna-coded horror manual."
"It's protection," Vivan said.
"It's a panic attack printed on paper," she shot back.
Ishaan stayed silent, but he was thinking — harder than usual.
"What happens if we break them?" he asked.
Vivan's smile faded.
"Someone did. He doesn't speak anymore."
Aarohi: "Why? He lost his voice?"
Vivan:
"He lost… his language."
That night, Aarohi stared at the feather.
The bansuri didn't play again.
But the file in Ishaan's bag now had something it didn't have before:
A small symbol drawn in ash.
And at the bottom of the last page —
"One hears. One doubts. One disappears."