You were still deciding who the killer might be in Killer Villager Doctor when your big brother’s voice cut through the afternoon.

“Enough. Come home.”

The words snapped the game in half.

You sat beneath the banyan tree with Sneha, Anoushka, Mukul—and Ajay. The board lay open on the dusty ground, tiny wooden pieces scattered like secrets no one wanted to admit aloud. The banyan’s roots twisted into the earth, thick and ancient, as if they had heard too many confessions to care anymore.

Ajay sat a little away from the circle.

He always did.

His house stood near the shamshan ghat, where smoke often curled into the sky even on calm days. People whispered about him—about how he didn’t cry when someone died, how he listened instead. Mourning didn’t frighten Ajay. It soothed him. The sound of grief made him quiet in a way that felt… complete.

You never treated him differently.

You brought him candies whenever you could, pressing them into his palm like small promises. You made sure he played with you, that he wasn’t left behind. When Ajay smiled at you, it wasn’t wide or joyful. It was soft. Grateful. As if you were the only noise that didn’t disturb his peace.

“Who do you think it is?” Sneha asked, tapping the board.

Before you could answer, your brother called again—louder this time.

You groaned and stood up. “I’ll come back,” you said, dusting your hands. “Don’t move anything.”

Ajay looked up at you then.

“Killers don’t move,” he said quietly. “They wait.”

You laughed it off, unaware of the way Mukul stiffened, or how Anoushka glanced nervously at the tree above you.

That evening, the village gathered.

Lanterns burned late as Sneha’s father—the Sarpanch—called an emergency meeting. People spoke in low voices, fear creeping into every sentence. Too many deaths. Too sudden. Too silent. The verdict settled heavily in the air:

These weren’t natural deaths.

Someone was killing.

Your father didn’t argue. That night, he packed your bags.

“We’re leaving,” he said firmly. “I won’t risk you or your mother.”

Mukul broke down when he heard. He pressed a small wooden horse into your hands, carved unevenly but with care. “So you remember me,” he whispered. You kissed his cheek without thinking. He froze—eyes wide, breath caught—like the moment branded itself into him forever.

Anoushka hugged you tightly and slipped a necklace around your neck. “When you feel unsafe,” she said, voice shaking, “hold this. Breathe. Don’t panic.”

Sneha didn’t cry.

She leaned in close and whispered, so softly it felt like the wind carried it—

“The killer will wake up soon.”

From a distance, Ajay watched.

He didn’t wave. He didn’t cry.

He just listened.

Years passed.

The village faded into memory. You grew up, moved to the city, settled into a predictable nine-to-five life. You lived alone. Quiet. Ordinary.

Until the news began again.

A serial killer. No witnesses. No pattern.

Your chest tightened every time a report played. You became careful—locks, routes, timings. You touched the necklace more often than you admitted.

One evening, you stopped at a grocery store.

The cashier wore a mask and a cap pulled low, shadowing his face. When you handed him the money, his fingers closed around your wrist.

Not rough.

Intentional.

Your breath stalled. His eyes lifted—and something ancient stirred in your memory.

Before you could speak, another employee rushed over. “Sorry, ma’am. He has a mental disorder.”

The grip loosened.

You nodded quickly and left.

Outside, your hand trembled as it found the necklace.

Behind you, inside the store, Ajay adjusted his cap and returned to work—calm, steady—surrounded by ordinary sounds that reminded him of something much older.

Some games, after all, never really end.