The Last Message at Midnight

The first time I saw Aarav Varma, he was standing in the rain as if it belonged to him.

Everyone else was running.

Students covered their heads with bags and books. A few screamed when the wind turned their umbrellas inside out. The stone road in front of Silver Oak University’s main building had already become a small river.

But Aarav did not move.

He stood near the old clock tower, wearing a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Rainwater ran through his dark hair and down the sharp line of his face. In one hand, he held a broken camera. In the other, he held a photograph.

He stared at the photograph like it had just told him a secret.

Then he lifted his eyes and looked directly at me.

I stopped walking.

It was stupid. Hundreds of people were around us. He could have been looking at anyone.

Still, for one strange second, I felt as if he had been waiting for me.

“Nila!”

Riya pulled my arm and dragged me under the library roof.

“Do you want to die on your first day?” she asked. “The rain is attacking people.”

I wiped water from my face. “I was just looking.”

Riya followed my eyes to the clock tower. The boy was gone.

“At what?”

“Nothing.”

“Good. Because we are already late.”

She pushed open the heavy library door. Cold air touched my wet skin, and I shivered.

Silver Oak was not how I had imagined it.

In the college brochure, every building looked bright and new. In real life, half the campus was more than a hundred years old. Long stone halls joined modern glass buildings. Old trees covered the paths like green roofs. Statues of dead founders watched students from every corner.

My mother had called it a dream university.

To me, it felt like a place that remembered too much.

Riya and I hurried to the orientation hall. We entered through the back door just as the dean began his welcome speech.

“Your years at Silver Oak will shape the rest of your life,” he said.

Riya leaned closer to me. “Mine is already shaped. I want lunch.”

I bit my lip to stop myself from laughing.

We found two empty seats in the last row. I placed my old camera bag under my chair. It had belonged to my father. The leather was damaged, the strap was weak, and the camera inside had not worked properly for years.

But it was the only thing of his I carried everywhere.

On the stage, the dean continued speaking about honour, discipline, and tradition. Behind him, a large screen showed photographs of successful students.

Doctors. Lawyers. Artists. Business owners.

Then the image changed.

The boy from the rain appeared on the screen.

This time, he was wearing a white shirt and holding a silver trophy. His smile was small, almost unwilling.

AARAV VARMA — NATIONAL STUDENT DESIGN AWARD

Riya caught me looking.

“Oh,” she whispered. “So that was your nothing.”

“I only saw him outside.”

“Everyone sees Aarav. The problem starts when Aarav sees them back.”

I turned to her. “What does that mean?”

Before she could answer, the microphone made a loud sound. Everyone looked at the stage again.

The dean announced the student council members. A tall boy named Kabir Shah walked onto the stage. Unlike Aarav, Kabir smiled easily. He had the kind of face people trusted before he even spoke.

“If you have any problem,” Kabir told the new students, “my door is always open.”

The hall filled with applause.

“He is cute too,” Riya whispered.

“You said you wanted lunch.”

“I can want two things.”

After orientation, we followed the crowd outside. The rain had become heavier. Thunder shook the windows, and the lights suddenly went off.

For a moment, the whole hall was dark.

Someone pushed me from behind.

I lost my balance. My camera bag slipped from my shoulder and fell down the stairs.

“My camera!”

I ran after it without thinking.

The bag hit the floor, opened, and the old camera rolled through a half-open door marked STAFF ONLY.

“Nila, wait!” Riya called.

But the crowd moved between us.

I pushed through the door and entered a narrow passage. Emergency lights along the floor gave the walls a weak red glow.

My camera lay near the end of the passage.

I hurried towards it.

The door slammed shut behind me.

I turned and pulled the handle. It did not move.

“Hello?” I hit the door. “Can anyone hear me?”

Only thunder answered.

I took out my phone. No signal.

Perfect.

First day at my dream university, and I was locked inside a dark hallway because I had chased a dead camera.

I picked it up and checked the lens. A fresh crack ran across the glass.

“No,” I whispered.

“That thing was already broken.”

The male voice came from behind me.

I turned so quickly that my back hit the wall.

Aarav stood in the red light.

He was only a few steps away. His black shirt was still wet, and a thin cut near his left eyebrow was bleeding.

“You,” I said.

One corner of his mouth moved. “We have not met, but you already sound disappointed.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

He looked at the camera in my hands. His expression changed.

“Where did you get that?”

I held it closer to my chest. “It was my father’s.”

“Let me see it.”

“No.”

He came one step closer.

I raised my chin, even though my heart was beating too fast. “Stay there.”

He stopped.

For a few seconds, neither of us spoke. Rain hit the small windows above us. Somewhere inside the building, an alarm began to ring.

Aarav looked at the locked door and then at the dark passage behind him.

“We need to leave.”

“I agree. Open the door.”

“That door only opens from the other side.”

“Then how do we get out?”

“There is another way.”

He began walking into the darkness.

I stayed where I was.

He looked back. “Are you coming?”

“I don’t follow strange men into dark hallways.”

“Good rule.” His eyes dropped to my ID card. “Nila Krishnan.”

I covered it with my hand.

“Unfortunately,” he continued, “your other option is to wait here until the power returns. During storms, that can take hours.”

Another crash of thunder shook the windows.

I hated that he was right.

“Walk in front of me,” I said.

He gave me a serious nod. “Of course. That way, if there is a murderer, he gets me first.”

I stared at him.

This time, he smiled.

It changed his whole face.

And for one dangerous second, I forgot that I did not trust him.

We walked through the narrow passage. I used my phone’s torch, but the battery showed only eight percent.

“What happened to your face?” I asked.

He touched the cut above his eyebrow. “An accident.”

“With what?”

“A person.”

“That is called a fight.”

“You ask many questions.”

“I study journalism.”

“Then I should stay away from you.”

His voice sounded light, but his face did not.

The passage ended at a staircase going down.

“The exit is below?” I asked.

“It connects to the old library.”

“Why does a university need secret passages?”

“Silver Oak likes secrets.”

We reached the lower floor. The air smelled of dust and wet stone. Old wooden shelves stood under white sheets. At the far end, a metal door had been covered with chains.

Red paint marked the wall beside it.

At first, I thought it was only a line.

Then my light moved across the words.

TARA KNOWS.

Aarav quickly stepped in front of me.

“Don’t read that.”

“Too late. Who is Tara?”

“No one.”

The answer came too fast.

“People don’t write warnings about no one.”

His jaw tightened. “Forget what you saw.”

“Why?”

“Because you are new here.”

“That is not a reason.”

“It is the only reason I can give you.”

Before I could question him again, we heard footsteps above us.

Not one person.

Several.

Aarav switched off my phone’s torch.

Darkness covered us.

His hand closed around mine.

“Be quiet,” he whispered.

The footsteps came closer.

Someone slowly walked down the stairs.

I could hear my own breathing. Aarav pulled me behind one of the covered shelves. His body was close to mine, one arm against the wall beside my head.

Through a small gap, I saw a light move across the room.

A man entered.

I could not see his face. He stopped near the words on the wall and spoke into his phone.

“Someone has been here,” he said. “Find Aarav.”

The light moved towards our shelf.

I held my breath.

Aarav’s fingers tightened around mine.

The light came closer.

Closer.

Then an alarm rang upstairs.

The man cursed and ran back towards the stairs.

We waited until his footsteps disappeared.

“Who was that?” I whispered.

Aarav released my hand. “You should not have come here.”

“I followed my camera.”

He looked at it again. This time, I noticed fear in his eyes.

Not surprise.

Fear.

He led me to a small side door that opened behind the library. The rain had slowed to a soft fall.

Riya was waiting under the roof, angry and worried.

“Where were you?” she cried, pulling me into a hug.

“I got locked inside.”

She looked behind me.

Aarav had already disappeared.

“Were you alone?” she asked.

I looked at the empty path.

“Yes,” I lied.

That night, I lay awake in our hostel room while Riya slept beside me.

Rain tapped softly against the window.

I kept thinking about Aarav’s hand around mine. About the fear on his face. About the name painted on the wall.

Tara.

At exactly midnight, my phone vibrated.

An unknown number had sent me a photograph.

It showed Aarav standing under the clock tower earlier that day.

But this picture had been taken from behind me.

Whoever sent it had been watching us both.

Another message appeared.

You met Aarav Varma today.

I sat up slowly.

My fingers became cold as I typed.

Who are you?

The reply came at once.

My name is Tara Menon.

Three dots appeared. Then vanished. Then appeared again.

The final message arrived.

Stay away from Aarav. I loved him first—and he killed me.

I stared at the screen until the words blurred.

Then a date appeared under the sender’s profile.

The account had last been active exactly one year ago.

The night Tara Menon disappeared.