Ayush had never liked the attic.
It was the only place in the house where silence felt heavy — like something was listening.
But that evening, when the power cut had forced him to search for an old lantern, he pushed the wooden attic door open. A cloud of dust fluttered into the beam of his flashlight, sparkling like tiny ghosts dancing in the air.
"Great," he muttered. "Exactly what I needed."
The attic smelled of old trunks, forgotten memories, and a strange sweetness he couldn't place. His father always said the attic had belonged to Ayush's grandfather — a man Ayush barely remembered. All he knew was that his grandfather had been a writer. A good one, apparently. Someone who never finished his final story.
Ayush stepped carefully, avoiding loose wooden planks. His flashlight flickered. He tapped it twice.
Still weak.
He found the lantern easily enough. But as he turned to leave, his foot hit something solid.
Thunk.
The sound was too sharp to ignore.
Ayush lowered the flashlight.
A small wooden box was sitting under an old table, half-buried under newspapers from years ago. It hadn't been there before — at least not in the times Ayush had visited the attic.
Curiosity nudged him.
He knelt, brushed aside the newspapers, and pulled out the box. The latch was rusted, the wood worn, the edges bitten by age. And yet… something about it felt untouched.
Ayush opened it.
Inside lay a leather-bound journal — thick, weighty, and far older than anything else in the attic. Its cover was dark brown, nearly black, with gold embossing on the edges. The pages were yellow, but not damaged.
And on the very first page, in neat handwriting, were two words:
"Write carefully."
Ayush frowned.
A message from his grandfather, maybe?
He flipped through the pages. Most were blank, but a faint smell of ink lingered between them. The kind of smell new books had, except this book was anything but new.
Ayush didn't consider himself a writer. He liked stories, sure. But writing them?
That felt too big, too intimidating — like something meant for people braver, smarter, more confident.
He closed the journal and stood up.
But as he turned to leave, the flashlight flickered again — and went off.
Darkness swallowed the attic.
Ayush's breath quickened. He fumbled for the lantern, lit the match, and finally the warm glow returned.
But the moment the lantern's light filled the room, Ayush froze.
The journal was open again.
On its own.
To the very first page.
The words had changed.
They now read:
"Write something."
Ayush's skin prickled.
Had he misread it earlier?
No — he was sure it had said "Write carefully."
He waited, half expecting the words to rearrange again.
But they didn't.
A nervous laugh escaped him.
"Okay… maybe the attic dust is messing with my head."
Still, a strange excitement bubbled inside him.
He sat cross-legged on the dusty floor, journal balanced on his knees.
The page stared back at him.
Inviting.
Daring.
His fingers trembled slightly as he picked up the old fountain pen lying inside the box. It felt warm — oddly warm — as if someone had been holding it a moment ago.
Ayush touched the nib to the page and wrote his first line:
"Today, a cool breeze will suddenly pass through my window."
Simple.
Safe.
Nothing dramatic.
He closed the journal, placed it back into the box, and carried everything downstairs.
When he entered his room, he tossed the journal onto his study table, washed the attic dust off his hands, and turned on his fan.
But before he could settle, the curtains behind him fluttered violently.
Ayush turned.
The window — which he was sure he had shut tightly — was now wide open.
A strong, cold breeze rushed through the room, raising goosebumps on his arms.
Ayush stared at the window.
Then at the journal.
"Impossible…" he whispered.
The exact thing he'd written… had just happened.
Perfectly.
Effortlessly.
Instantly.
His heartbeat quickened, thudding against his ribs.
He approached the journal, slowly, like it might leap at him.
He flipped to the page.
The sentence he wrote glowed faintly for a moment — like fresh ink drying — then settled back into normal text.
Completely real.
Ayush swallowed hard.
"What are you…?"
The room felt colder now.
As if the air itself was waiting.
There was no denying it.
No way to explain it.
His words had become reality.
Ayush sat down slowly, his mind racing, fear and excitement twisting together.
The journal wasn't normal.
And whatever it was…
It had just chosen him.