Maybe today wasn't perfect. Maybe she wasn't either.
But she had a list. A laugh. A possible beginning.
And a name to remember: Sid.
It was a start.
"You're late," Sid's voice cut through her thoughts, a teasing edge in his tone. "The classes already started. What are you interested in?"
Aarya hesitated, scanning the rows of doors lining the hallway. She hadn't thought that far ahead. What was she interested in? Drawing? Writing? Something new entirely?
Finally, she found the courage to say, "Creative writing… I think."
Sid's grin widened, as if he'd known all along. "Come on, I'll show you the way."
They walked together, his footsteps light, hers hesitant but growing more certain with each step. He stopped in front of a modest wooden door with peeling paint. "Here it is," he said, stepping aside. "Good luck, Aarya."
The classroom fell into a hush as Aarya pushed open the door of the creative writing centre. Dust particles floated like ghosts in the beam of afternoon sunlight spilling through the long windows. The room smelled of ink, chalk, old books and something else. Something like purpose.
Twenty pairs of eyes turned toward her. She immediately regretted coming.
A middle-aged woman with thick spectacles and a gaze sharp enough to cut through steel looked up from a desk scattered with pages.
"You're late," she said, not unkindly.
"I uh was told to join this batch," Aarya mumbled.
The woman raised an eyebrow. "Then take a seat. And from now on, come on time. Writing doesn't wait for inspiration. It waits for discipline."
Aarya nodded and quickly found the last empty chair in the back row. She tried to melt into it.
"Alright," the teacher continued, turning to the board. "Today we're working on observation and detail. A good writer doesn't just see the world they notice it. They listen to silences. They chase after what everyone else ignores. Now… open your notebooks."
Aarya's pen hovered.
That pigeon. It had looked so offended. Like it was fighting gravity just for the right to exist. Its clumsy crash had been so unexpected, yet poetic.
She began scribbling, the words coming fast.Maybe the world throws pigeons at your window just to remind you you're alive.She chuckled softly.
"Ms. Aarya," the teacher's voice rang out.
Her pen stopped mid-word. "Yes, ma'am?"
"You're already writing?"
Aarya flushed. "I ..I just had an idea…"
The teacher's lips twitched, almost smiling. "Good. Then you'll enjoy today's task. Everyone, I want you to write about something ordinary but look for what's hidden underneath. Surprise me."
As the rest of the class groaned or flipped pages with boredom, Aarya's mind was already running ahead.
She didn't want to write about flowers or tea or traffic signals.
She wanted to write about the crack on the floor tiles, the one near the window. She'd noticed it while entering. It curved unnaturally as if someone had once slammed something sharp there.
And the corner of the desk in the front row. A faint mark, circular. Like a coffee cup. But no one was drinking coffee today.
Aarya's eyes narrowed.
She didn't feel like a student anymore. She felt like… a detective.
The rest of the class faded into silence as pens scratched across pages. Aarya, however, was consumed by something deeper. Her eyes darted across the room, noticing how one chair had a different screw than the others. Someone had replaced it recently.
There was a paper folded and jammed between the radiator and the wall. Why hadn't anyone taken it out?
She reached under her desk and pulled something from the corner—an old locket, dusty, its chain broken.
What was this doing here?
She stared at it, heart pounding slightly. It was tarnished but had initials on the back: "M.S."
Who was M.S.? And why did it feel like this wasn't just some forgotten trinket?
Her hand went to her notebook. She scribbled:
Sometimes, clues aren't in the thunder. They're in the cracks. They whisper.
She glanced at the teacher, who was deep in correcting another student's work. Then around the room.
No one else noticed. No one ever did.
For the first time in a long time, Aarya wasn't just existing. She was observing. And more than that she was feeling.
Her pen continued:
The locket sat under desk 23. Abandoned, perhaps. Or hidden?What stories do classrooms swallow when no one's listening?
She picked up the locket and tucked it into her bag, already forming a story around it. Maybe it had belonged to a former student. Maybe it was planted here on purpose. Maybe ust maybe it held a secret.
Just as the bell rang and everyone began packing up, a gust of wind whooshed in through the old window. Aarya's hair flew into her face as the paper lodged behind the radiator fluttered and fell.
She darted forward before anyone could see and picked it up.
It was a torn page from a diary.
"I saw him again today. I shouldn't feel this way. But I can't help it. If anyone finds out, I'm finished. But it's like I'm flying when I'm with him…"
No name. No date.
Her fingers curled around the fragile page. Her heart was racing again not out of fear, but excitement.
There was a story here. A real one. Maybe even something scandalous.
The girl who had walked in half invisible was now burning with curiosity. She didn't want to leave. She wanted to dig deeper.
"Aarya," the teacher called as she stepped out.
She turned. "Yes?"
The woman looked thoughtful. "What you wrote today. It wasn't just good, it was aware. You're seeing things most people overlook."
Aarya blinked. "I… I just like to notice things, I guess."
The teacher smiled softly. "That's not 'just' anything. That's a gift."
For a moment, Aarya forgot about the noise in her house. The way her mother cried when no one was watching. The broken door, the cracked phone screen, the stifling silence of a place called home.
Here, for the first time, someone saw her.
That evening, back in her room, she emptied her bag.
The locket. The diary scrap. Her notes.
She laid them out like puzzle pieces.
Something clicked.
Aarya was no longer the girl staring out the window, waiting for life to change.
She was the one following the clues.
Maybe the pigeon hadn't been a mess at all.
Maybe it was a sign.
She grinned.
Let the mystery begin