The two friends were a spirited duo, radiating a buoyant energy that was as infectious as it was unpredictable. Their circle had long grown accustomed to their capers, yet the wit and originality behind each prank still managed to surprise everyone.
Their adventures weren’t confined to their hometown. Born wanderers at heart, they preferred the open road and often embarked on spontaneous road trips. On one such journey, they found themselves in a quaint hill station—a serene, picturesque town that instantly captured their imagination. Smitten by its charm, they extended their stay, unwilling to leave its tranquil embrace.
True to their tradition, they devoted one evening to exploring the town’s bar scene. What began as a night of lighthearted revelry stretched into a 12-hour escapade. By the next morning, one of them realized he had misplaced his government ID—lost somewhere between laughter and liquor. Unbothered, they shrugged it off with a laugh, deciding to sort it out back in the city.
Upon returning, they sought out a local fixer known for smoothing bureaucratic wrinkles—particularly the re-issuance of ID cards and helping people withdraw from their Provident Fund accounts. They showed up at his shop just before midnight, catching him as he was closing for the day. With their usual charm, they persuaded him to assist them immediately.
But this visit had an ulterior motive.
Slipping into mischief mode, they handed over a Provident Fund ID belonging to a deceased individual. As the fixer typed in the details, the system abruptly flagged the account as blocked due to the holder’s death. His expression drained of color. Panic set in; he looked ready to flee.
Watching his reaction, the two couldn’t contain themselves. Laughter erupted as they confessed to the prank, assuring him it was all in good fun.
Then they noticed something strange—the laptop screen was completely blank.
“How did you even check the details?” one asked, brows furrowed in confusion.
The fixer leaned back slowly, a peculiar stillness about him. With a faint, knowing smile, he replied, “Power’s overrated—I don’t need it to know what’s coming.”
The friends exchanged uneasy glances, their laughter beginning to fade. One of them reached toward the laptop to turn it on, but the screen stayed dark. No boot-up. No sound. Just silence.
They turned back toward the fixer—only to find the chair empty.
The shop was locked from the inside. The air had gone still, heavy. On the desk lay the PF ID they’d handed over, untouched. Beside it, a faded photograph in a cracked frame: the fixer, smiling in front of the very same desk… with a garland draped over the photo.
The two friends stood frozen, a chill creeping down their spines. The prank had turned real—but the joke, it seemed, was on them.
And from somewhere behind the walls, barely audible, came the sound of soft, echoing laughter.
Musafir 
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