Faint Traces

THE VANISHING SPOT

FAINT TRACES

Episode 5: The Vanishing Spot

---

There’s a place behind the school building.

Overgrown. Cracked cement. A neem tree that casts restless shadows all day.

And a bench.

Or—there was a bench.

I remember it.

Peeling blue paint, two legs uneven, always slightly damp even in summer.

No one sat there anymore.

Except her.

Meher used to sit on that bench like she belonged to the quiet.

Like the world moved around her, but never touched her.

I remember watching her from the second-floor library window.

She would braid her hair with old black ribbons, her hands working quickly, nervously, like she was trying to keep something from falling apart.

But yesterday, when I went to that corner...

There was nothing.



I asked the peon if they’d removed it.

He looked at me blankly and laughed.

“There was never a bench there. You’re imagining things.”

I wanted to laugh back.

But there was a tightness in my chest that wouldn’t leave.

Because when I turned away,

I heard it—

creak.

Wood shifting under weight.

As if someone had just sat down.

---

I didn’t tell Ansh.

Not because I don’t trust him.

But because I don’t know if he remembers her… or if he’s just pretending to remember me.

We were in the library again—surrounded by half-sleeping books and the scratch of old fans.

I found the attendance register from two years ago.

I flipped through the names like I was looking for something I’d lost but couldn’t describe.

And then I saw it.

Meher Sharma.

One line. My heart stopped.

I looked up at Ansh.

His eyebrows furrowed.

Then he smiled, sort of slow and puzzled.

“That’s your name, right?”

I laughed too loudly.

No—it’s not.

But in that moment, it felt easier to say nothing.

So I didn’t correct him.



---

Ansh walked me home that evening.

We didn’t talk much, just listened to the distant sounds of the city breathing.

At the gate, he stopped and looked at me.

“You ever get this weird feeling?” he asked.

“Like you’re supposed to know someone, but their name’s been scratched out of your brain?”

I stared at him.

He ran a hand through his hair, avoiding my gaze.

“Sometimes I dream of this girl,” he continued, voice lower now. “She’s sitting alone under a tree. Two braids. Ink on her fingers. She’s always writing something.”

He paused.

“In the dream, I can never remember her name.”



---

I should have said something.

I should’ve asked him if the girl ever looks up.

If she smiles. If she says his name.

Or mine.

But I just stood there—quiet, small, shrinking under the weight of things unsaid.

Because now, I’m starting to think maybe I’m the one who’s been forgotten.

Or worse—maybe I never existed either.

---

I went back to the school again today. Alone.

And this time, there was something under the tree.

Not a bench.

Not a ghost.

Just a ribbon.

Faded black. Dusty at the edges. Still tied, like it had slipped from someone’s hair just moments ago.



I picked it up. It smelled faintly of chalk and ink.

I looked around—but no one was there.

Just the hum of the afternoon, the cicadas buzzing like static in my ears.

And for a second, I swore I heard a voice whisper:

"That's mine."

But when I turned—

There was no one.

Only silence.

And the ribbon in my hand.