GRAINS🙂 - by Zarah Writes

Part 1Zara woke before dawn, the kind of morning that still felt unfinished.5:00 a.m. Her alarm barely had to work. Sleep clung to her eyes as she pushed herself out of bed and shuffled into the kitchen, moving on muscle memory alone. She placed a pot on the gas stove and turned the knob. The flame bloomed blue beneath it. Water went in. She didn’t wait to watch it boil. In the pantry, she reached for the rice container and froze. The lid was open. She stared at it for a second longer than necessary, then exhaled and covered it properly. Probably just tired. Probably forgot last night. She scooped out a few cups and returned to the kitchen. The water was boiling now, angry bubbles slamming against the sides of the pot. She washed the rice, poured it in, and stirred once. That was enough. Zara walked into the sitting room and sank into the couch, phone already in her hand. Messages. Notifications. TikToks that blurred into one another. Time slipped. A few minutes later, a thought cut through the fog. Tea. She got up and went back to the kitchen, picked up the kettle, and turned on the tap. As the water rushed in, her eyes drifted, unfocused, landing on the tabletop gas beside her. She blinked. Two grains of rice sat on the surface. She was sure they hadn’t been there before. As she watched, they moved. Not fell. Not slid. They crawled. A sharp chill ran through her. Her breath hitched, then steadied. She laughed under her breath, forced it out. Hangover. Lack of sleep. Her brain playing tricks on her. She turned off the tap, placed the kettle on the stove, and focused on breathing normally. The rice was done. She grabbed a sieve and strained it, steam rising into her face. She turned on the tap again to rinse it. That was when she felt it. A light tingle on her arm, like static. She paused, scratching absentmindedly. The sensation spread. Another tingle. Then another. She looked down. Rice grains clung to her skin. Wet. Pale. Moving. They crawled over her arms in clusters, slipping over each other, gathering speed as they climbed. Up her forearms. Toward her shoulders. Toward her face. Her scream tore out of her before she could think. The sieve crashed to the floor, rice scattering everywhere, alive and writhing. Zara bolted out of the kitchen and into the open compound, slapping at her arms, shaking, crying. But the grains didn’t fall. They held on. They crawled higher. “It’s killing me!” she screamed, voice breaking. “The rice is killing me!” It was almost 5:30 a.m. Too early. Too quiet. Doors slammed shut along the compound. Curtains twitched, then disappeared. No one came out. No one asked questions. Only the echo of her screams remained, bouncing off concrete walls, unanswered. And the rice kept moving.

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