The Enigma of Chitterpari

Chapter 17 - "An Apple"

Ali jolted awake, breath ragged, heart racing, the relentless ache in his head surging again. The pain, a familiar companion by now, had followed him from the depths of his dream into reality, pressing down on him like a weight he couldn't shake. His fingers instinctively massaged his temples as he struggled to hold on to the fragments of a fading dream hazy, fleeting images that vanished the moment he stirred, leaving only a hollow unease behind.
The room was cold, the weak dawn light barely breaking through thick curtains, casting jagged shadows across the walls. The chill in the air wrapped around him, adding to the discomfort already lodged deep in his bones. He remained still for a moment, staring into the dimness, his mind drifting back to yesterday. The frantic scramble, the blocked tunnel, the panic that had flashed in his friends' eyes. The weight of the choices they'd made still hung heavy on his chest. He sighed and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His muscles protested as he stood, stiff from the strain of the past few days. Every movement felt labored, each step through his morning routine mechanical brushing his teeth, splashing cold water on his face. The icy shock momentarily cut through the fog in his mind, but the persistent throb of his headache remained, a constant reminder that peace was elusive. The silence around him wasn't just an absence of sound; it pressed down on him, oppressive, heavy. Even the birds, usually lively at dawn, sang muted, tentative notes. It was as if the entire village was holding its breath, trapped in the same uneasy stillness that had gripped him for weeks.
In the kitchen, Ali moved on autopilot. He tossed bread into the toaster, filled the kettle, and leaned against the counter, eyes drifting to the window. Outside, the thick fog clung to the earth like a ghostly veil, swirling in the pale light of the rising sun. It added to the eerie calm that had settled over everything, a quiet that felt unnatural. The kettle's whistle startled him back to the present. He poured steaming water over a tea bag, watching the dark liquid swirl, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Worry gnawed at him. The last few days had pushed them all to the edge, and the uncertainty of what lay ahead was suffocating.
Ali sat down, his eyes on the plate. The last slice of bread disappeared with slow, deliberate bites. He chased it with a sip of tea, lukewarm now, swirling the cup before setting it down with a soft clink. He stared at the empty plate, then glanced at the cupboards. Bare.
His fingers drummed against the table, but he didn't move.

No more food.

His hands hovered over the cup, feeling the last traces of warmth slipping away. A faint tightness coiled in his chest, spreading as he swallowed the final mouthful. After eating he slouched in his chair, staring at the empty plate like it would suddenly sprout more food if he just concentrated hard enough. He rubbed his temples and sighed. "Alright, genius, what's the plan now? What are you going to do, just sit here and starve?" He squinted at the empty cup of tea as if it held the answer, but of course, it didn't.
Pushing the chair back with a squeak, he stood up and started pacing the room. "You could just stay here... but for how long?" He paused, rubbing the back of his neck. "I mean, you can't just sit here forever." He glanced at the kitchen window, but the fog outside was so thick it was like staring into a wall of gray.
"Okay, think, Ali. Do you go out? It's been... what? three, four, probably five days no more I think, since you left the house?" He scratched his head. "What if you go to my friends' place ?" They're probably sitting on a mountain of food, right? .... Right?" He laughed at his own joke, but the sound died quickly in the cold air. "Yeah, sure, because things have been going so great for everyone."
He walked to the fridge, yanking it open, but it was as empty. "Brilliant. Should've gone shopping when you had the chance," he muttered. "Or maybe, I dunno, not eaten through everything like it was your last meal every time." He closed the door and leaned his forehead against it, his breath fogging up the metal.
"And what if they don't help?" he asked the empty kitchen, turning the question over like a puzzle in his head. "I go to Abdullah, knock on his door, and he just... what? Slams it in my face? Or maybe They'll pretend I am not even there. Wouldn't that be fun?" He chuckled dryly.
He straightened up, shaking his head. "Nah, that's just paranoia talking. They wouldn't do that... I think." But the uncertainty gnawed at him. His friends were good people but are good people ? but everyone's struggling now.
And fear changes people, at least that's what uncle Arham told.
"Okay, so... I go out. I find them. Maybe they help, maybe they don't. But what if..." He trailed off, then suddenly dropped his voice into a low, gruff imitation of Arham: "Do not go out, nor let anyone else in. Keep yourself safe." He snorted. "Right, uncle. Because sitting here and waiting for food to magically appear is a solid survival strategy. How's that working out for you I wonder?"
He threw his arms out wide, looking around his desolate kitchen. "I mean, look at this! It's like the world's saddest sitcom—just me, an empty fridge, and some fog outside that won't quit." He ran a hand through his hair, his pacing more erratic now. "What are my options, really? Stay inside? Sure, that's smart, right? Except I have no food.