Page 34 - 4.4 Abhivyakti

Echoes Beyond 1:10 Am

I was journeying through the stillness of the late night in Berlin, when the faint glow of my watch’s dial revealed that the
hour was drifting at 1:10 am. Amid the silence, a sudden resonance of a ringtone pierced the air, startling me with its
abruptness.

My phone vibrated with a resonant chime, and to my astonishment, the name that illuminated the screen was none other
than Garry—my dearest companion and confidant. The sight of his name stirred within me a surge of nostalgia, conjuring
a vivid portrait of his last presence in my memory.

I recalled him vividly adorned in a frizzy jacket, a bronze watch glistening with a diamond-like sheen upon his wrist, and a
crimson T-shirt. His lips curved into a radiant smile, completing his visage of a vintage-styled punk, exuding both charm
and audacity. I picked up the call, and the voice that reached me was far from its familiar warmth—it carried a strained,
uneasy tremor. Garry spoke with urgency, his tone hesitant and unsettled, as though burdened by thoughts he could
scarcely utter.

I had called Johnsburg McCarte immediately and explained briefly about the situation and he agreed to guide me towards
Garry’s residence. He instructed me to hasten my steps, and I soon found myself accompanied by Johnsburg McCarte, a
trusted acquaintance, whose house was in between the location heading towards Garry’s house . With John leading the
way, I pressed forward, the night growing heavier with every passing moment.

By the time we approached our destination, the clock had struck 3:10 a.m. The silence of the hour weighed upon us, broken
only by Garry’s faltering voice echoing in my mind. His words were fragmented, hesitant, and marked by an unspoken
danger. As our journey neared its end I started to detail about the call to my partner, Garry’s broken speech unveiled the
depth of his grief. He spoke feverishly of memories that tormented him, each one circling back to the figure he had
cherished above all—his mother. Her passing had carved a void within him that no time could heal.

With his voice trembling, he confessed, “I loved her… I still love her… and I cannot live without her.” Those words fell into the
night like a solemn requiem—an unending testament to love entwined with sorrow and those were his last words when
the call ended.

The photograph that he had mailed was deeply unsettling. A single glance at it sent a shiver crawling down my spine. The
image revealed mother’s face drenched in blood, half the skull charred beyond recognition; the very sight was grotesque
enough to freeze my breath. To me, her death seemed less an accident and more a sinister orchestration—suicide perhaps,
or even murder. We were scarcely five minutes away from Garry’s house when the dim streetlights flickered into silence,
surrendering the path to the cool breath of night. Mist coiled in the air, thickening the atmosphere with a sense of
foreboding. Above us, the moon hung low, cloaked in an ominous crimson hue, while the distant echo of howls stirred the
stillness. Fireflies shimmered faintly in the darkness, their fragile glow only deepening the uncanny beauty of the night.

At last, we arrived before the mansion. Its appearance was otherworldly—almost spectral—its structure shimmering like a
hologram, etched with strange rectangular patterns that seemed designed to unsettle the eye. The vast garden, populated
with hundreds of trees, lay in eerie silence, as though the earth itself were holding its breath.

The door stood ajar. From within, a dreadful sight awaited: blood was streaming down the staircase, glistening under the
pale moonlight, as though the very house itself were bleeding. Before the door, a suffocating stillness engulfed us. As we
crossed the threshold, the sight that met our eyes was ghastly beyond comprehension. Garry lay lifeless beside the corpse
of his mother, a crumpled note pressed against his chest.
John’s face betrayed the storm within him—his features contorted with an expression that was both furious and grief-
stricken, a visage torn between rage and unbearable sorrow. His eyes lingered on the note, which bore an auspicious
inscription: “You can’t find anything here.”

Those words resounded like an omen, summoning to my mind the memory of unsolved mysteries long whispered in history
—cases steeped in shadow from Prussia to Denmark—where the dead seemed bound together by fate’s cruel design
pattern. And now, before us, Garry and his mother lay united in death, their bodies claimed by that same inexorable
destiny.

The clock read 4:50 a.m. The first rays of dawn began to pierce the night, but the light felt less like renewal and more like
revelation—a cruel reminder that this was not an ending, but the beginning of a darker descent, the genesis of destruction
yet to unfold.

PRABHNOOR SINGH BAJAJ
GRADE 12
NAND VIDYA NIKETAN
28 JAMNAGAR