Raghav had lived in the flat for six months. It wasn’t much—just a small room with a desk, a bed, and an old wooden cupboard left behind by the previous tenant. He didn’t care about it much. It was just furniture, standing quietly in the corner.

He had just turned off the light and was drifting into sleep when he heard it. A faint sound. Like someone whispering. His eyes shot open. He sat up, listening hard. The sound came from the cupboard.

He waited, holding his breath. Silence.

“Must be my imagination,” he told himself and tried to sleep again.

But the next night, it returned. Louder this time. A low laugh, echoing strangely from inside the cupboard.

On the third night, it was crying. Not loud, but deep. Like someone far away was weeping.

Raghav’s stomach knotted. He pulled the blanket over his head, too afraid to move. When morning came, the cupboard was silent again, standing there like nothing had happened.

Days turned into weeks. The routine continued—work in the day, and whispers, laughter, or sobbing at night. Raghav grew pale. He drank more coffee to stay awake, his eyes fixed on the cupboard, waiting, dreading.

He thought of telling his friends, but the idea embarrassed him. “Voices in a cupboard? They’ll laugh at me,” he muttered. So he stayed silent.

But inside, the fear grew heavier each night.

One night, unable to take it anymore, he walked to the cupboard. His hands shook as he touched the handles. He stood there for a long time, frozen, before pulling the doors open.

At first, nothing. Darkness.

Then, his eyes adjusted.

A man sat inside. Bald, thin, cross-legged. He was smiling.

Raghav stumbled back, his throat dry. “Who… who are you?”

The man tilted his head. His voice was calm. “I live here. This is my world.”

Raghav’s chest tightened. “Your world? This is my cupboard!”

The man’s smile widened slightly. “To you, maybe. To me, it is the only place. We are born from thoughts, and we live alone. One thought, one being.”

Raghav’s heart pounded. “So… if I stop thinking of you… you will disappear?”

The bald man leaned forward, his eyes gleaming.

“No,” he whispered. “I will make sure you always think of me. I will keep you alive… so there is a war inside your mind. And in that war, I survive.”

Before Raghav could reply, the cupboard doors slammed shut.

The room was silent again.

But that night, lying on his bed, Raghav realized the truth. No matter how hard he tried not to, he was already thinking of the bald man.

And then the whisper came, soft and clear from the cupboard:

“You’re thinking of me.”

“Even silence is thought.”