Parth had never missed a deadline.
Not once.
Not during his years as a junior analyst or his promotion to team lead, not even when he had the flu so bad he coughed up blood in the break room sink. He once emailed an entire loan report from the back of an ambulance. The paramedic complimented his typing speed.

Parth was a banker, but more than that, he was a man of routine. A man of perfect attendance. There was pride in it—cold, clean pride, the kind you can stack like ledgers and file away like spreadsheets.

His wife left him two years ago.
She said it was because he missed his son, Kamal’s school play. And his birthday. And the day their daughter fell down the stairs and broke her collarbone.
Parth disagreed. He thought it was because she didn’t understand the weight of responsibility.

He didn’t miss his daughter much. She had his wife’s eyes, anyway. But Kamal—he missed Kamal. He just didn’t have time to show it.

—

The story broke at 7:45 a.m., just as Parth was sipping his sugarless tea. A man had murdered his wife and children, then thrown himself off the twenty-seventh floor of the bank’s main office tower—Parth’s tower.
The man had debts. Large ones. A mortgage refinance that went bad. Multiple late payments. The kind of numbers Parth had flagged months ago.

People whispered “curse” and “bad spirits” over slack. Some asked HR for emergency leave. One by one, desks went dark.

Parth went in anyway.
He ironed his shirt a little extra. Took the long way to the office, because traffic lights were insane today.

When he arrived, the lobby lights were dimmer than usual. The security guard nodded without speaking.

—

Parth’s floor was quiet in the wrong way. Not peaceful, but padded—like the sound itself had left in shame. Desks sat in rows like empty train cars. No phones rang. No shoes clicked.

He opened his terminal. Logged in. Took notes. Did the work of seven people. Ate a sandwich without noticing the taste.
Somewhere around 7:00 p.m., he texted Kamal:

"Rain check. Got caught up. Will reschedule soon."

Kamal didn’t reply. Parth assumed he was asleep.

—

By 9:15 p.m., the overhead lights began to flicker.

A bulb blinked near the copier, slow and irregular. It cast long shadows that curved the corners of the room. Parth didn't look. He was filling in column G with overdue penalty codes.

That’s when he heard footsteps.
Soft. Too soft for shoes. Just skin on linoleum, like someone walking barefoot.

They came from the staircase.

Parth rose from his chair and opened the door.
Nothing.
He returned to his desk.
The phone rang. He answered. It clicked once, then silence.

Outside the window, he saw a shape.

A man. Hanging. Just outside the glass. His arms hung like ropes. His face pointed downward.

Parth stared. The man didn’t move.

He got up, opened the blinds fully.
There was no balcony. No ledge.
The window was thirty floors up.
When he blinked, the man was gone.

Parth sat back down. Opened a new Excel tab.
Focus, he told himself. Focus and finish.
Your mind is playing tricks. That’s all.

He didn’t notice the phone light up again. Or the whisper, just beneath the hum of the printer.

“Parth…”

He heard it. Dismissed it.

The lights dimmed again.

Something fell.
A soft thud, like a body remembering gravity.

He ignored it.

—

At 6:12 a.m., a voice woke him.
“Sir. Sir, can you wake up?”

It was a police officer. Young. Polite. Parth blinked his eyes open, his back aching from the office chair. Sunlight spilled onto the desk like an apology.

“You’re Parth Ramesh?” the officer asked.

Parth nodded.

“Please come with me.”

They took the elevator in silence. The officer pressed G.
As they stepped into the lobby, the building groaned.
The glass doors opened.

And there, under a white sheet on the sidewalk, was Kamal.

The sheet didn’t cover his shoes. Parth recognized them.
Green. Velcro. Worn at the toes.

“He came looking for you,” the officer said. “We think he snuck in through a loading dock. Must’ve gone up to find you. Security footage shows him on the upper floors.”

Parth opened his mouth.

Closed it.

The sheet moved slightly in the breeze.

The officer kept talking, gently.
“Somehow… he fell. From up there.”

Parth looked up. The windows were smooth, mirrored, and unreadable.

He remembered the shadow.
The hanging shape.

Only now—he wasn’t sure it had been a man.

—

They buried Kamal on a Friday.
Parth missed two days of work. Then returned.

He never missed another.

But sometimes, at night, when the building went quiet and the lights flickered and the copier groaned—

He heard footsteps.