The Signature

The city hummed beyond the glass walls of the office, but inside, it was eerily quiet. Aryan sat in the conference room, staring at the chair across from him. The contract lay open on the table, pen poised beside it. A deal that would change everything.

His phone buzzed. A message.

“Are you sure?”

No name. No number. Just the question.

He frowned, glancing at the empty chair again. He had been here before—years ago. Different table, same choice. Back then, he had walked away. Tonight, he wouldn’t.

A knock at the door. The lawyer walked in, pushing a second document toward him. “One more signature.”

Aryan reached for the pen. Then stopped.

A coffee cup sat on the table. Half-empty. Not his. Not the lawyer’s. The stain from its base still fresh, imprinting a perfect ring on the paper beneath.

His chest tightened. “Who else was here?”

The lawyer gave him a long look before exhaling. “You always ask that.”

Aryan’s fingers froze. “What?”

The lawyer tapped the contract. “Every time we sit here, you hesitate. You look at that chair, and you ask the same thing.”

Aryan’s mouth went dry. “We’ve never done this before.”

The lawyer didn’t argue. He just slid the pen closer. “Then sign.”

Aryan glanced at the chair across from him. The one he had been staring at.

It was still now. But he could swear—just a second ago—it had been pulled out slightly, as if someone had just left.

His pulse pounded. He checked his phone. The message was gone. Vanished.

He had been here before—years ago. Different table, same choice.

But last time, it hadn’t been a business deal.

It had been a hospital consent form.

And the signature they had needed was his. To pull the plug on his father.

He had hesitated then, just as he was hesitating now.

The same chair. The same lawyer. The same feeling that something wasn’t right.

Because the moment he had signed back then, the machines had beeped, the doctors had nodded, and his father’s breathing had stopped.

But what had haunted Aryan ever since wasn’t the decision itself—it was what happened after.

Two days later, the hospital had called.

A mix-up. A clerical error. The patient in bed 14 had been critical, but not brain-dead. A different patient, bed 15, had been the one scheduled for withdrawal of life support.

Aryan had signed too soon.

He had killed his father.

And now, years later, here he was. The same table. The same hesitation. Another signature that would change his life forever.

His phone buzzed again. He looked down.

“Don’t do it.”

And this time, he knew exactly whose message it was.

His father had died once because of his pen.

Will he again kill someone else?