Arjun laughed nervously. Then, his lathe—the old, unmoved Colchester in the corner—clicked once. He spun around. Nothing.

His professor called it “a fluke.” Arjun just smiled and touched the printed page in his pocket.

He never told anyone about the ghost notes. But that night, at 3 AM, he started the lathe. The spindle turned so true that a dropped hair split lengthwise on its edge.