The streets weren’t safe after dawn.
Rehan learned that by his third city.
The woman on the landing introduced herself before he reached the last step. “You’re the new tenant? 4B?” She held two paper cups.
He nodded.
“Bhargavi. 2A.” She handed him one. “I figured you looked like someone who forgot breakfast.”
“I don’t drink tea.”
She looked at the cup already in his hand. “You’re holding it.”
He looked down. He was.
That became their morning. Ten minutes on the stairs. Her tea. His silence.
By the second week, Bhargavi knew his habits without asking. He left before the streets became crowded. He never stood near the balcony. He locked the door twice.
One morning, she caught the door before it closed. Inside, she saw a zipped suitcase standing against the wall.
“Moving again soon?”
He looked back. “Just how I keep things.”
“Your full name?” she asked another morning.
“Rehan Kapoor.”
“Kapoor?” She paused. “I know a Kapoor from somewhere.”
“Common surname.”
“Not that common.”
He smiled. “Maybe.”
Downstairs, the security guard unlocked the gate every morning at the same time. “Morning, sir.” Same smile. Same nod.
***
The message came after midnight, in a group he rarely opened.
Does anyone know the new tenant in 4B? Rehan Kapoor?
A few seconds later: Bhargavi: Yeah, he seems nice.
Then came the article. An old headline. His photograph. His name. Eight years old.
The thread refreshed. Bhargavi deleted a message. The screenshot of the old article remained. He stared at it until the screen went dark.
He opened his laptop, clicked on the folder named ‘Court Documents’, scrolled to the last page. ‘Acquitted’. The case that had followed him for eight years left the courtroom, but not everywhere else.
He browsed his name.
Rehan Kap—
The suggestions appeared first. Molestation case. Victim statement. Where is he now.
He had been acquitted in court. Not in autocomplete.
The ceiling fan turned above him. The room stayed awake. When the first azaan rose, he was still sitting there.
***
He left before sunrise. The bakery shutter rolled open as he crossed the road. The security guard unlocked the gate. This time, his eyes stayed on the latch mechanism. He didn’t look up.
A woman walking her daughter to school glanced at her phone, then at Rehan. She moved her smiling child to her other side.
Sunrise didn’t bring light. It brought recognition.
Her mother didn’t look back.
On the landing, there was only one paper cup. Bhargavi was already drinking from it. Neither of them spoke.
***
The receptionist pointed toward HR.
Divya closed the cabin door. A printed copy of his project had his name crossed out with a thick black marker.
“I read the whole thing. The court records are clear,” she said.
Rehan looked at the black marker ink across his name.
“Management received three complaints from the client team.” She looked past his shoulder at the glass wall. “I argued.” A pause. “It wasn’t enough.”
She folded her hands together. “We need to let things settle.”
He nodded.
That evening, he stayed at his desk until the office emptied, the corridor went quiet, and streets turned familiar again. Night still knew him as a stranger. Morning kept trying to remember.
***
His mother’s call came when he reached home.
“You ate?”
“Yes.”
“Your father went to the market today.” A long pause. “He came back early without buying anything.” Silence stretched between them. “He said the stalls were too crowded.”
Rehan leaned against the wall. “That’s good.”
His mother laughed softly – a dry, fragile sound. “Yes.”
The call ended. He filled a glass of water. The tap ran longer than it needed to. Water spilled over, wetting his knuckles.
The doorbell rang. Bhargavi stood outside, holding two paper cups.
“I searched.” He waited. “The judgment.” A pause. “All of it.”
Footsteps echoed in the corridor. Someone opened a door upstairs. Bhargavi looked toward the stairwell. Her hand lowered. She placed both cups on the concrete floor by his boots.
“I should go.”
She walked back down. The tea remained between them. One cup cooled. The other never moved.
His phone buzzed. Divya: Take the week. Paid leave. A second message followed. Not a punishment.
He unlocked his phone. He typed: Please read the judgment. I can send it. The cursor blinked. He held the backspace key until the text box was empty. Then he locked the phone.
***
The suitcase came out before dawn. The curtains remained folded inside their packet. The carton still leaned against the wall. He closed the apartment door behind him. Locked it. Once. Twice.
The first azaan rose. The temple bells answered. The bakery shutter rolled open.
At the crossing, someone called out, “Kapoor.”
Rehan turned, his fingers tightening around the suitcase handle.
“Arjun Kapoor! Over here!” Two men laughed across the road. One waved. One crossed toward the other.
Rehan stood still for a moment. Then he walked on.
Ahead, a man waiting for the signal unlocked his phone. A notification appeared. Without reading past the headline, his thumb tapped Forward. The screen went dark. The signal turned green. The man stepped into the crosswalk.
Rehan watched him disappear into the crowd. He would never know which morning had just changed.
He pulled the suitcase behind him and crossed alone.
The streets weren’t safe after dawn
***
Glossary:
Azaan – The Islamic call to prayer at dawn
***
Photo by Liana S on Unsplash
No. of Words: 897 (Excluding the title)
