Ten minutes - He knew I would never return

The night had no sound. No dogs barking, no wind brushing the trees — only the rhythm of my own footsteps echoing against the deserted road. The streetlights flickered like dying stars, and for a moment, I thought I was walking through a world already abandoned. I didn’t know where I was going. I just knew I couldn’t stay where I was. Every direction looked the same — long, grey, endless. My phone battery had died hours ago. The silence started to feel alive, whispering things I couldn’t quite hear. That’s when I saw the headlights A lone vehicle in the distance — its beams cutting through the fog like two white eyes. I waved, half in fear, half in hope. The engine slowed, coughing softly, and the door creaked open. A driver looked out. His eyes were calm — too calm. The kind of calm that hides things. “Where to?” he asked, his voice steady, like he’d been waiting for me. I hesitated. “Anywhere that’s not here.” He smiled faintly and said, “Then you’re lucky. I’m going to Lucknow.” I didn’t ask why a driver would appear on an empty road in the middle of nowhere. I didn’t ask how he knew I was there. I just opened the door… and stepped inside. The car started moving. The road swallowed the silence again. But somewhere deep in my mind, a voice whispered — Some rides aren’t meant to end. I had a sense of comfort but still wasn't ready I was scared, I felt alone. He didn’t speak for miles. The only sound was the engine’s low hum and the rhythmic slap of tires against a road that seemed too long, too lonely. I stared out of the window — the world outside was swallowed in darkness, as if the headlights were cutting through an endless void. The driver’s hands gripped the wheel like they’d been carved there. Steady. Unshaking. Every few minutes, he would glance at me through the rearview mirror — not with curiosity, but with something colder. Something like… recognition. “You’re quiet,” he finally said. “I don’t talk much,” I replied, forcing a weak smile. He nodded once. “That’s good. The road doesn’t like noise.”I frowned. “What does that mean?” He didn’t answer. He just turned the radio knob, but no station came on — only static, whispering like distant voices. He left it there, the faint hiss filling the silence. I leaned back, trying to rest, but a strange unease crept in. The smell of the car was odd — faintly floral, like wilted petals mixed with something metallic. I looked down and noticed the floor mat was damp, stained with something dark that glimmered under the faint light. “Been driving long tonight?” He smiled, eyes still on the road. “Long enough to forget where I started.”The headlights caught something by the roadside — a sign half-buried in the dirt. Only one word was visible, scratched and fading: “RETURN.” When I looked back at the driver, he was already watching me in the mirror. This time, he didn’t smile. This was the moment I knew something strange is happening. I leaned closer to the window, trying to catch sight of lights, people — anything that looked like a city. But the world stayed quiet.Then, faintly, a shape appeared ahead — a small, empty signboard, rusted and bent, hanging from a single chain. It swung in the wind, creaking like a sigh. Painted across it, almost invisible beneath the dirt, were the words:“LUCKNOW BUS STAND.”I exhaled in relief — maybe this was it. Maybe I had finally reached somewhere real. But as we rolled to a stop, something felt wrong. There were no buses. No people. Just a stretch of uneven land and a scent in the air — soft, floral, and strangely sweet.Purple. Everywhere I looked, purple flowers swayed in the mist, blooming through cracks in the stone like they owned the ground.“This doesn’t look like a bus stand,” I murmured. The driver’s eyes stayed on the flowers. “It used to be.”“What do you mean, used to be?”He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned off the headlights. Darkness swallowed everything but those glowing petals. They almost seemed to pulse — breathing.I stepped out slowly. The air was thick and warm, though the night was cold a moment ago. There was no sound — no insects, no wind — only the faint hum beneath the soil, like something moving deep below.When I turned to ask the driver what this place was, he was already gone. The car sat there, engine still ticking, door wide open, but the seat was empty.I called out — nothing. Just the flowers, swaying softly, as if listening.And then, behind me, a whisper: "You finally came back" Purple Flowers, Black Souls It wasn’t a bus stand. But I couldn’t prove it. Inside, I knew something was wrong — deeply wrong — yet I couldn’t react. Fear had tied my body to the ground like invisible chains.The place was too quiet. No buses, no horns, no human noise — just the rustle of petals and the soft hum of wind that sounded almost like breathing.I looked around, desperate for movement, for any sign of life. That’s when I saw her.A girl — sitting on the broken bench, half hidden behind the flowers. She was smiling, gently waving at me as if we had known each other forever. Her dress was pale, her eyes hollow but glimmering under the moonlight.For a second, I felt relief. Someone was here. I wasn’t alone.“Are you waiting too?” she asked softly. Her voice was strange — sweet, but echoing, like two people were speaking at once.I nodded slowly. My throat was dry. “I… don’t know where I am,” I whispered.She tilted her head, smiling wider. “You’re at the Lucknow Garden Bus Stand. Don’t worry, everyone arrives here eventually.”Her words didn’t make sense, but I didn’t dare question them. Somewhere deep inside, I knew — this wasn’t a bus stand. It was something pretending to be one.Then, I noticed something at her feet. A small pool of dark liquid seeping into the soil. Not water ,Not mud,It was thicker. And the flowers near it had turned black.She caught my stare and laughed lightly. “You shouldn’t look down,” she said. “It sees you when you look down.”Before I could ask what she meant, a faint voice echoed behind the trees — a man’s voice, calling my name . But when I turned toward the sound, the girl whispered, “If you go there, you’ll never come back.”I froze. The wind stopped. She laughed again. That same soft, hollow laugh — the kind that was meant to make things lighter, but instead made the air heavier.I smiled weakly, pretending to play along. She cracked another joke, about how quiet the night was, how “spooky” the place looked. Her tone was teasing, warm even, but her eyes — her eyes didn’t smile.There were two boys with her. They laughed too, but theirs felt real — nervous, forced, the kind of laughter people use when they don’t know what else to do.I sat a little apart, on the edge of the cracked wall, listening to them talk. They joked about ghosts, about “rest stops that never existed.” And every time one of them said something strange, the girl would giggle, look at me, and say, “Don’t worry, it’s all just stories.”But I couldn’t relax. No matter how normal she made everything sound, there was something wrong about the way her shadow didn’t move when the firelight flickered.I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. I knew she shouldn’t know that I knew.The night passed slowly. At some point, I must have fallen asleep — or maybe I didn’t. When I opened my eyes, the sun was rising. And then I saw it.The boy who had been sitting nearest to the tree… was lying on the ground. Still. Too still.The other boy was screaming, the police rushing in from somewhere — uniforms, cameras, chaos. But all I could see was the cut on the dead boy’s neck. It was clean, precise. No struggle. No sign of fight.The girl stood beside me, watching silently. Her face was blank, calm, almost peaceful. And then — she smiled.“They always leave too early,” she whispered.I turned away, pretending I hadn’t heard. My hands were trembling.The police were asking questions, writing notes, taking photographs. And just beyond the crowd, on the wall in front of us, there was a large poster.It showed the face of a man — pale, serious — with the words written below: “Rest in Peace, Ishan Singh — 1980–2005.”But then, someone walked in front of that very same poster. A man. The same man.Alive. Breathing. Talking to an officer.My vision blurred. I blinked hard, but he was still there. The same face. The same clothes. The same expression. I wanted to ask — who is he? — but I didn’t.Because I knew the girl was watching me.I could feel her eyes on my face, waiting to see if I’d noticed. So I pretended not to.I didn’t ask. I didn’t react. Because I knew she knew everything — about the boy, about the man, about the place —and I didn’t want her to realize that I was beginning to know it too.She smiled again, that same small, strange smile, and whispered, “Some stories are better left unfinished.”And for the first time, I understood — the joke was never meant to make me laugh. Still keeping the suspense, fear, and emotion alive, but making it easier to read and feel. I wanted to run. Every part of me screamed to escape — to reach my home, my family, the people I loved. I knew it wasn’t a bus stand. It never was. But something kept me there — fear, shock, or maybe something I couldn’t name. The night was dark again. The police were gone. The place was silent. I sat near the broken wall, shaking, when suddenly I heard a horn — far away but clear. My heart jumped. It sounded like a car, a way out, maybe even rescue. I started running toward the sound. There was light too — bright and white — just ahead. It felt like hope. But when I reached there, everything disappeared. The light vanished. The horn stopped. It was only an empty, closed space with broken walls and purple flowers. No car. No road. Nothing. My heart sank. It was all in my mind — a trap, an illusion. Then I heard another sound — shhk, shhk — someone digging the ground. I turned , a man was crouched there, calmly digging with a shovel. He looked so peaceful, like he was doing something ordinary. I didn’t care. I just wanted to leave.But as I began to walk away, I heard him laugh softly. When I looked back, I froze , The man’s face — it was the same man from the “Rest in Peace” poster. The one who had died in 2005. He was smiling at me. “You didn’t understand till now,” he said in a calm voice. “I killed that boy. I killed the man too.”My mouth went dry. My heart pounded, but I couldn’t move. He looked at me kindly — almost like a teacher explaining something simple. “Death isn’t bad,” he said. “It’s quiet. It’s easy. I’ll just keep you under this ground for ten minutes. You’ll stop breathing… and then I’ll cut you into pieces and throw you away. Simple.”I stood frozen, my body numb. He didn’t sound angry — just gentle, almost loving. That made it worse. Behind him, I saw the girl standing among the flowers. Her smile was back. She didn’t look scared. She looked pleased — like she’d been waiting for this moment. I wanted to scream, to run, to fight. But I couldn’t. My voice refused to come out. He picked up the shovel again, digging slowly, the sound of the soil mixing with the girl’s soft humming. Everything felt unreal — like a nightmare I couldn’t wake from. He came closer, grabbed my wrist with strong, cold fingers, and whispered, “You shouldn’t be afraid. Death is patient. It waits for everyone.” The girl whispered near my ear, her tone sweet and cruel, “It’s easier if you pretend you don’t know what’s happening.” And then I realized — I had always been pretending. Pretending I didn’t see. Pretending I didn’t know. Pretending I wasn’t next. The last thing I remember was his hand pulling me closer to the hole. The smell of wet soil filled my lungs. The world turned dark and the girl kept humming that same soft song —a lullaby for the ones who never left...