PAGE 17 — EPISODE 2: “The Book Was Never Supposed to Be Found”

PAGE 17 — EPISODE 2: “The Book Was Never Supposed to Be Found”

Last night, I didn’t sleep.

How could I?

My phone died after flashing that message:

“Stop reading. You weren’t supposed to find it.”

And then — silence.

Not even the hum of the fridge.

Just rain tapping the window like someone counting down.

I woke up at 3:07 AM.

No alarm. No noise.

But the book was in my hand.

The Silence Between Breaths.

I don’t remember picking it up.

I don’t remember opening it.

But there I was — standing in the hallway, barefoot, clutching it like a prayer book.

Page 17 was open again.

Only this time…

the obituary had changed.

"Arjun Menon, 28, found dead in his apartment on October 14, 2025. Cause of death: suffocation. No signs of forced entry. Note found beside body: 'I saw the future. It saw me back.'"

I dropped the book.

It landed face-up.

And from between the pages, a folded piece of paper slipped out.

Not old.

Not yellowed.

Fresh.

Like it had just been printed.

I unfolded it.

A single line:

“You’re not the first Arjun Menon who read this book.”

Below it?

A list.

Handwritten.

Five names.

All with the same surname.

All marked with dates.

Vikram Menon — July 3, 1988

Karan Menon — April 12, 1995

Dev Menon — November 9, 2003

Ravi Menon — February 18, 2016

Arjun Menon — October 14, 2025

Each name…

crossed out.

Except mine.

Not scratched. Not erased.

Just… not yet.

I ran to my laptop.

Searched each name.

Vikram — student at Delhi University. Died in library basement. Asphyxiated by dust-filled vents. Police report said he was “reading alone.”

Karan — software engineer. Found in apartment, face pressed into an open book. No trauma. No drugs. Family said he’d been “obsessed with a novel.”

Dev — disappeared for three days. Reappeared holding a book. Spoke nonsense for 12 hours. Then stopped breathing mid-sentence.

Ravi — my cousin.

I hadn’t seen him since we were kids.

He vanished during Diwali prep.

They found him seven days later — seated at our ancestral home’s study table, eyes wide, hands gripping a book titled “The Silence Between Breaths.”

It was never published.

And now…

it’s in my house.

I called Amma.

“Amma, tell me about Ravi. What really happened?”

Silence.

Then her voice — quiet, scared:

“Beta… we never spoke of it. But he kept saying one thing before he died…”

“What?”

She whispered:

“Page 17 knows your name.”

I hung up.

Went back to the book.

Tried to burn it.

Flame wouldn’t catch.

Threw it in the sink.

Turned on the tap.

Water ran red.

I pulled it out.

Dry.

Unharmed.

And on the cover, new words now etched into the leather — as if burned by invisible fire:

“You are the reader. You are the text. You are the next page.”

It’s 10:43 PM now.

October 13th.

One day left.

And I just heard it again — soft, slow, from outside my door.

Scratching.

But this time…

it’s not random.

It’s tapping.

In rhythm.

Like Morse code.

Three taps.

Pause.

Two taps.

Pause.

One long drag.

I looked it up.

That’s not a signal.

It’s a sentence.

In old telegraph code, it means:

“I’m already inside.”