The Enigma of Chitterpari

Chapter 11 - "Prank"

Hamza descended the stairs, each step felt heavier, as if the nightmare still clung to him, dragging his soul through the waking world. The vivid echoes of twisted faces and whispered threats hadn't left his mind—they hovered, persistent as a shadow stretching across his consciousness. The morning light that spilled into the hallway felt almost mocking, too bright, too perfect, as though it had no right to exist after the horrors he had just endured. He stopped at the edge of the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe, momentarily frozen in the threshold between two worlds: the one inside his head, dark and chaotic, and the one before him, warm and alive. His father's soft hums threaded through the air, almost too calm, but somehow they pierced the fog in Hamza's chest. A small smile tugged at his lips despite the lingering dread.

His father stood by the stove, effortlessly flipping eggs in the pan, his movements smooth and deliberate, the comforting rhythm of a routine perfected over years. The smell of fried eggs, toasted bread, and freshly brewed tea wrapped around Hamza like a blanket, the familiar scent drawing him back from the darkness inch by inch.
He then made his way to the sink, splashing some cold water on his face, trying to shake the lingering unease. When he joined his father at the breakfast table, he noticed the spread of fried eggs, tea, and a small bowl of yoghourt with berries. Classic, simple, comforting.
"Morning, Dad," Hamza muttered, taking his seat.
"Morning, champ," his father replied with a grin, sliding a plate toward him. "Figured you might need a good breakfast after that wild sleep I heard last night. Lots of tossing and turning going on."
Hamza gave a half-hearted chuckle, reaching for the toast. "Yeah, just... a weird dream." He didn't elaborate, didn't want to, not when the images of those hooded figures still hovered at the edges of his mind.
His father glanced at him, brow raised slightly, but didn't push. Instead, he poured tea into their cups and set the kettle down. "Well, nothing a good meal can't fix, eh? Eat up. You look like you could use it."
Hamza nodded and muttered a quick thanks, focusing on the meal in front of him. The fried eggs were perfectly cooked, the golden yolk spilling out just right. The toast was crisp, and the tartness of the yoghourt mixed with the berries brought a refreshing contrast. He could feel his muscles unwinding, little by little, with each bite.
"So," His father began after a few moments of quiet chewing, "any plans for today? Or are you planning on being a hermit with that book of yours?"
Hamza smirked slightly, appreciating his father's attempt to lighten the mood. "Hermit sounds about right. I just want to get lost in a good story for a while. Clear my head." His father smiled knowingly, taking a sip of his tea. "Books do that, don't they? It's like they create this world you can step into and forget about all the noise around you. But," he added, pointing a fork at Hamza, "don't get too lost. The real world's waiting for you too, you know."
Hamza smiled and nodded, feeling his shoulders relax. "Yeah, I know."

After they finished breakfast, Hamza helped his father clear the table, washing down the dishes with warm water. There was a calmness to the morning, the kind that felt like a quiet exhale after holding your breath for too long.
Once he was done, Hamza grabbed his book from his room and made his way outside. The backyard was quiet, wrapped in the soft, golden embrace of the early sun. The air smelled faintly of dew-drenched grass, and the distant hum of insects buzzed lazily in the background. Scattered around were signs of gardening left from the day before rusted metal trowels leaning against an old, weathered wheelbarrow, a ladder propped casually against the side of the house, a pair of muddy gloves tossed on a nearby stone bench, and a coiled green hose resting by a wooden shed, still dripping from its last use.
His focus then shifted to the large tree standing proudly in the centre of the yard, its thick branches casting wide patches of shade over the grass. The tree had always been his favorite spot, with its sturdy, gnarled roots pushing up through the earth, making a perfect place to lean. He settled down beneath it, the bark rough against his back as he opened his book, letting the pages fall to where he'd last left off. The morning breeze danced softly across his skin, cool and refreshing, stirring the leaves above with a quiet rustle.
For a moment, everything felt right. The rustling leaves overhead, the warmth of the sun breaking through the branches and the distant hum of life around him. He turned the pages of his book, the words drawing him deeper into a fictional world, Hamza let out a quiet breath. He closed his eyes for a second, letting the fresh air fill his lungs. It was peaceful here, safe.