The sun scorched its way to the zenith, casting harsh light over the school courtyard. Vishwakarma High was drowning in routine—bells rang, students drifted from class to class, teachers scolded and instructed. But beneath the surface, a silent tremor pulsed in the halls, as if time itself had developed a fever.
The timers had changed everything.
Not a single student could ignore it anymore. Conversations buzzed like electricity. Who had vanished. Who remembered. Who didn't remember.
And who was next.
---
Period 3: Chemistry Lab
Riya leaned over a burner, pretending to measure out sulfuric acid, though her eyes kept flicking to her wrist. The timer ticked calmly at 00:44.
She wasn't faking anymore. Not since that morning. But the anxiety was... different now. It wasn't just about popularity or beauty—it was survival.
Next to her, Priya worked in silence, her face pale under the bright white fluorescents. Her hands moved mechanically, precise, but her gaze was somewhere else. Probably recalculating her entire future. Maybe I don't want to be a damn doctor. The words still rang in her head like a song she wasn't supposed to know the lyrics to.
Across the lab, Rahul accidentally knocked over a beaker. It shattered, the sound sharp and final.
"Idiot," the teacher snapped. "How many times have I told you—"
But Rahul didn't flinch. He was staring at his timer.
00:05… 00:04…
His breath hitched. He closed his eyes and muttered something, barely audible.
"Sometimes I wish I didn't have to care about anything."
00:03… 00:02…
Still red.
Riya's head snapped up.
"RAHUL!" she barked.
He looked at her.
"Tell the truth, dumbass! Not some angsty movie dialogue!"
And Rahul, wide-eyed, panicked, shouted, "I stole from my dad's wallet last night! I bought weed and then cried in the bathroom because I hate being alone!"
A hush.
Then—
00:02 → 01:00
The class exhaled.
The teacher turned, confused.
"What's wrong with all of you today?"
No one answered. No one could explain the price of silence.
---
After School
The quad was quieter than usual. Small clusters of students murmured, checked their timers, exchanged wild theories. Some believed it was punishment from a god. Others thought it was an alien game show. Most just knew one thing:
Pretending was dangerous.
Neha stood on a table in the center of it all, her voice commanding.
"We need data. What works, what doesn't. It's all patterns. We build a grid. We track behaviors. We figure out what counts as real."
"And if what's real for someone is silence?" asked a girl from the crowd.
Neha opened her mouth to answer—
But a scream tore through the courtyard.
Everyone turned.
It came from the corridor.
A boy had collapsed, twitching. His timer blinked.
00:01
He whispered something. No one heard.
Then—
Nothing.
He was gone.
And no one remembered.
No one except those already marked by the clock.
Riya backed away. Her stomach twisted.
"I… I think I knew him."
"No," Priya said softly. "You almost did."
---
Later That Evening: Rooftop of Vishwakarma High
The sun had bled into the horizon, leaving streaks of burnt orange and bruised purple. Riya, Neha, Rahul, Priya, and Aman sat in a rough circle on the roof, the wind tangling their hair and thoughts.
"Why us?" Aman asked. "Why only students? Why only truth?"
Neha stared out into the darkening sky.
"Because lies are the first thing they teach us. But truth? That's something we have to remember on our own."
Rahul scoffed. "This is some next-level horror movie logic."
Riya's voice was distant. "What if we run out of truths?"
That silence again. That static between seconds.
Then—Aman said quietly, "What if the timer runs out when you're not lying, but just… not sure what's real anymore?"
---
In the library, where dust floated like time made visible, a figure sat curled into the farthest corner beneath a high, arched window.
She wasn't part of the groups. Not yet.
She hadn't spoken once since the timers appeared. No one asked her to. Most forgot she was even in their class.
But she was watching.
Eyes the color of dusk tracked every movement.
Ira.
Her timer never changed.
It never blinked.
It simply was.
And in the margins of a yellowing poetry book beneath her hands, she had drawn a door. A lock. And a bird with no beak.
Beneath it, in handwriting like rainfall, was a single sentence:
"Some truths are older than time."