Late Night at Brainium
It was 11:30 p.m. when DIP remained alone on the seventh floor of Brainium Information Technologies, fingers trembling over the keyboard, the hum of servers the only companion. The office felt too quiet. Too still. Every cubicle shadowed like a dark pit, every fluorescent light buzzing intermittently, throwing jagged shadows on the polished floor. He pushed himself to finish the deployment logs. The corridor outside was long and narrow, stretching into darkness. As he walked toward it, a sudden cold gust brushed past his neck, though all windows were closed. He froze. Footsteps echoed behind him, soft but deliberate, fading as he turned his head. Empty. Only darkness.
At the far end of the corridor, under a flickering light, a pale figure appeared. Her skin seemed translucent, glowing faintly in the dim light. Eyes hollow, wide with sorrow. She didn’t move but seemed to watch him, a presence that pressed against his chest like a weight.
“Who’s there?” he whispered.
His own voice sounded loud in the empty corridor. She did not answer. The lights flickered violently, and for a brief instant, the monitors along the walls displayed her falling down the stairs, ghostly and distorted, before snapping back to static. He spun around she was gone.
The Seventh Floor Washroom
Shaking, he went to the seventh-floor washroom, hoping to steady himself. As he reached for the tap, the faucets turned on by themselves, spraying icy water across the sink. The overhead lights flickered rapidly, almost strobing. DIP jumped back, slipping slightly on the wet floor.
In the mirror behind him, her reflection appeared: pale, soaked in shadow, eyes empty yet piercing. He spun—but the washroom was empty.
A faint whisper resonated through the tiles:
“I… died… alone…”
Then came the metallic clatter a stall door slammed shut violently. DIP’s breath came in short gasps. The air felt thick, almost viscous, pressing against his chest. He backed out into the corridor.
The Balcony
Desperate for fresh air, DIP rushed to the seventh-floor balcony. Fog had rolled in, curling along the building like spectral fingers. City lights below were dim, almost swallowed entirely.
He leaned against the railing and suddenly a shadow moved across the mist. A hand brushed his shoulder, icy cold. He spun. The girl appeared before him, just out of reach. Her lips moved:
“I… died… here too…”
The fog thickened unnaturally. Shapes formed within it vague human figures, screaming silently, reaching toward him. The balcony doors slammed behind him, rattling violently. He bolted inside.
The Elevator
DIP jumped into the Shakti Tower elevator, desperate to descend. Doors closed with a harsh groan. The lights flickered, plunging the cabin into darkness for a split second. When they returned, the air was icy, and he felt her presence filling the small space.
The elevator buttons pressed themselves. A low hum of typing filled the cabin, though no one was there. The elevator jolted violently between floors, shaking him. He heard whispers from the corners:
“Same office… same night… Brainium…”
Finally, the doors opened to the lobby. He stumbled out, gasping, but the feeling of being watched never left.
The Road
DIP’s hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white. His heart raced, every nerve screaming. The pale figure remained in the middle of the road, her presence impossible yet undeniable. Fog curled around her like spectral fingers, and the air was unnaturally cold.
“I… I died… on this road,” she whispered again, her voice breaking slightly. “Same office… same night… Brainium…”
DIP swallowed hard. “Wh-who are you?” he stammered, voice shaking.
Her Story
She stepped closer, yet didn’t move from the mist. Her hollow eyes met his, and for the first time, DIP saw not just sorrow, but raw, unbearable pain.
“I was… like you,” she began, her voice trembling. “I worked at Brainium. Late nights, invisible, unnoticed… a cog in the machine. No one saw me, no one cared. And that night… I left… exhausted, hoping to get home early… but the road… it… it took me.”
Her voice cracked. She looked down, and for a moment the fog around her seemed to thicken, twisting as if sharing her grief.
“I remember every step I took from the seventh floor corridor… the washroom where I paused… the balcony where I hesitated… the elevator… everything. I thought I was alone, safe… but fate… it had other plans. A car came… too fast… the lights blinded me… and in a heartbeat, I was gone.”
Her tears, faint but visible in the pale glow, streaked her cheeks. “No one reported it. No one cared to remember me. I became… nothing. A whisper in the fog, a shadow in the office… erased while life went on around me.”
The Plea
DIP’s throat tightened. He realized the magnitude of her pain , not just the physical accident, but the crushing isolation, the utter erasure of her existence.
“I tried… to go back,” she continued, her voice a shiver against the night.
“To stay where I belonged… where my life… my effort… mattered. But I can’t leave Brainium.
I am tied to the seventh floor, to the server room, to the corridor where I walked… because that was all I had. That was… all I was.”
Her gaze pierced him. “I am not angry… only… lonely. And forgotten. You see me because you notice… because you understand. Please… don’t let them forget me. Don’t let my life, my death, vanish into silence. Remember me… only then… maybe… I can rest.”
Morning
DIP blinked and found himself lying on cold, damp asphalt. The morning sun was weak, struggling through the thick fog that still clung stubbornly to the streets of Sector V.
As he slowly sat up, a horrifying realization struck him: he was exactly where Riya’s body had been discovered months ago.
Remember Me
DIP rose, hands trembling, tears streaking his face. Every step he took away from that spot felt heavier, charged with purpose. He now carried the burden of her story, her pain, and her plea. And he knew: until her life was acknowledged, until the world remembered Riya Sen, her spirit would linger, watching, waiting… eternally bound to the place where she had lived, and died because sector V, which never clock out.
