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- Herausgeber: Ishwar Singh
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
Life moves fast. Streets fill with noise. Faces pass, unknown and fleeting. But beneath the bustle, beneath the glow of streetlights and the hum of engines, there are shadows. Shadows that watch. Shadows that judge. Shadows that whisper truths we are too afraid to speak aloud.
Shadows Between Streets is a story of choices. Not the loud, dramatic choices. Not the ones that demand applause. But the quiet ones—the ones that arrive in silence, unannounced, hiding in pauses, in glances, in words left unsaid. It is about responsibility. About ownership. About the courage to act when every step carries weight.
Jarnail Singh walks these streets. So do Deepti, Niranjan Singh, Dyal, and others. Each carries secrets. Each carries consequences. Some are seen. Some remain hidden. And in between, the city moves. The city breathes. The city watches.
This book does not promise easy answers. It does not offer comfort. It challenges the reader to consider what it truly means to choose, to weigh, to act—and to own what follows. It is a mirror, held against a city and its inhabitants, against shadows that linger both outside and within.
If you read carefully, you will feel the flicker of the streetlights. You will hear the echoes of decisions. You will walk alongside Jarnail and his companions, feeling the tension, the hesitation, and, ultimately, the weight of consideration.
Some choices change everything. Some pauses end everything. Some shadows reveal everything.
Welcome to the streets. Welcome to the shadows.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
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Shadows Between Streets
ISHWAR SINGH
Shadows Between Streets
By Ishwar Singh
Published in the Italy
First Edition: 2025
DEDICATed to
I am dedicating this book to my parents
Preface
Life moves fast. Streets fill with noise. Faces pass, unknown and fleeting. But beneath the bustle, beneath the glow of streetlights and the hum of engines, there are shadows. Shadows that watch. Shadows that judge. Shadows that whisper truths we are too afraid to speak aloud.
Shadows Between Streets is a story of choices. Not the loud, dramatic choices. Not the ones that demand applause. But the quiet ones—the ones that arrive in silence, unannounced, hiding in pauses, in glances, in words left unsaid. It is about responsibility. About ownership. About the courage to act when every step carries weight.
Jarnail Singh walks these streets. So do Deepti, Niranjan Singh, Dyal, and others. Each carries secrets. Each carries consequences. Some are seen. Some remain hidden. And in between, the city moves. The city breathes. The city watches.
This book does not promise easy answers. It does not offer comfort. It challenges the reader to consider what it truly means to choose, to weigh, to act—and to own what follows. It is a mirror, held against a city and its inhabitants, against shadows that linger both outside and within.
If you read carefully, you will feel the flicker of the streetlights. You will hear the echoes of decisions. You will walk alongside Jarnail and his companions, feeling the tension, the hesitation, and, ultimately, the weight of consideration.
Some choices change everything. Some pauses end everything. Some shadows reveal everything.
Welcome to the streets. Welcome to the shadows.
Ishwar Singh
Shadows Between Streets
CHAPTER 1 — THE UNSEEN CHOICE
Jarnail Singh paused.
The road was empty.No headlights.No footsteps.No voices.
Yet he stopped.
Not for traffic.Not for fear.
For thought.
The kind that arrives uninvited.The kind that refuses to leave.
The night stretched in front of him like a held breath.
A single streetlight flickered above the crossing.Buzzed.Died.Returned.
Its light was weak.Uncertain.As if even electricity hesitated here.
Jarnail stood beneath it.
Hands in his coat pockets.Shoulders squared.Back straight.
A habit from another life.
The city around him slept unevenly.Some windows glowed.Most did not.
Somewhere far away, a train horn sounded.Low.Lonely.
He did not move.
Time slowed.Or maybe he did.
The road ahead was narrow.Cracked asphalt.White lines faded by years of neglect.
He knew this crossing well.Had passed it a hundred times.Maybe more.
Tonight was different.
Tonight, he felt watched.
Not by eyes.By memory.
The flickering streetlight hummed again.Its sound crawled into his thoughts.
Buzz.Pause.Buzz.
Like a question being asked again and again.
Jarnail exhaled slowly.
Cold air burned his lungs.
The weather had changed without warning.It often did.
Just like people.
He looked left.
Empty.
He looked right.
Empty.
Still, he stayed.
Some decisions announce themselves loudly.With alarms.With panic.
Others wait quietly.
They pretend to be nothing.
Those are the dangerous ones.
Jarnail had learned that long ago.
He remembered another night.
Another road.
Another pause.
That pause had cost him years.
This one felt heavier.
The silence deepened.
No dogs barked.No cars passed.No drunk laughter spilled from alleyways.
Even the city seemed to respect the moment.
Or fear it.
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
Once.
He did not answer.
Some calls deserve patience.
Some do not deserve answers at all.
The vibration stopped.
The streetlight flickered again.
This time, it stayed on.
Jarnail lifted his eyes.
He noticed the small things now.
A torn poster on the pole.Half a face visible.A political promise long expired.
A discarded shoe near the curb.Child-sized.Too clean to be trash.Too lonely to be anything else.
The smell of dust and damp concrete filled the air.
The city always smelled like this before rain.Or before trouble.
Sometimes both.
He shifted his weight slightly.
His boots scraped softly against the road.
The sound felt loud.
He froze again.
Consideration is not indecision.He knew that.
Indecision circles.Consideration stands still.
Indecision fears choice.Consideration respects consequence.
He had spent years confusing the two.
Not anymore.
Another memory surfaced.
A voice.Firm.Unforgiving.
“Think before you move, Jarnail.”
Niranjan Singh’s voice.
The name arrived uninvited.
It always did.
Jarnail clenched his jaw.
He hated how memory worked.How it ignored time.How it ignored healing.
Niranjan Singh had taught him many things.
None of them gentle.
None of them free.
The streetlight flickered once more.
Buzzed.
This time, the sound felt closer.Louder.
As if it leaned down to listen.
Jarnail looked at his hands.
Large.Scarred.
Knuckles swollen from old fractures.A thin white line across his right palm.
He remembered earning that scar.
A broken bottle.A rushed decision.A moment without consideration.
Blood on concrete.Someone screaming.
Consequences.
He flexed his fingers slowly.
They obeyed.
That alone felt like progress.
The road ahead remained empty.
Yet he knew.
Something waited beyond the crossing.
Not a person.
A moment.
Moments have weight.More than people realize.
This one pressed against his chest.
He inhaled again.
Steady.
Controlled.
The way he had been taught.
The way he had forgotten.
A breeze passed.
It carried paper along the road.Old receipts.A torn flyer.
They skidded across the asphalt, then vanished into darkness.
Temporary things.
Jarnail wondered if choices were the same.
Or if they stayed.
He checked his watch.
The glass reflected the streetlight’s weak glow.
11:42 p.m.
Late enough for regret.Early enough for redemption.
If redemption still existed.
He heard footsteps then.
Faint.Measured.
Not rushed.Not careless.
Jarnail did not turn.
He listened.
The steps stopped behind him.
The space between them filled with unspoken words.
The streetlight buzzed again.
Silence stretched.
Finally, a voice spoke.
“Still standing here?”
Dyal.
Jarnail allowed himself a small exhale.
Relief came late.But it came.
“Yes,” he said.
One word.
Enough.
Dyal stepped closer.
Close enough to share the light.Close enough to share the pause.
“You always stop here,” Dyal said.
“Why?”
Jarnail did not answer immediately.
Answers given too fast are often lies.
He stared ahead.
“At this crossing,” he said slowly,“I once walked through.”
“And?” Dyal asked.
“And I shouldn’t have.”
The streetlight flickered.
This time, it stayed dim.
Dyal shifted.
“You waiting for something?” he asked.
“No,” Jarnail replied.
“Then what?”
Jarnail’s voice dropped.
“I’m considering.”
Dyal said nothing.
He understood that word.
Everyone who knew Jarnail long enough did.
They stood together.
Two men.One light.One quiet road.
The city held its breath.
Somewhere, a door slammed.Far away.
Life continued.
Indifferent.
Dyal finally spoke.
“Whatever it is,” he said,“don’t take too long.”
Jarnail nodded.
“I know.”
But knowing does not always help.
Dyal stepped back.
The light no longer touched him.
He became a shape at the edge of darkness.
“You coming?” he asked.
Jarnail looked ahead one last time.
The crossing waited.
Patient.
Unjudging.
He took a step forward.
Then stopped again.
The unseen choice pressed closer.
Consideration does not shout.
It waits.
And Jarnail Singh was listening.
CHAPTER 2 — DEEPTI’S WINDOW
Deepti watched from the third floor.
Curtains half drawn.Lights off.
The room behind her stayed dark.Not because she liked darkness.Because darkness hid her.
The glass was cold against her fingers.
She leaned slightly forward.
Careful.
Movement attracts attention.Stillness survives.
Below, the street looked different at night.Smaller.Quieter.More honest.
Streetlights carved circles into the darkness.Everything outside those circles vanished.
Jarnail stood inside one of them.
Alone.
Too still.Too long.
Deepti narrowed her eyes.
She had learned to read stillness.
People who stop like thatare either lostor deciding something dangerous.
Jarnail was not lost.
That left only one possibility.
She held her breath.
The habit came naturally.
She had learned long agothat breathing too loudlycould change outcomes.
The city slept unevenly.
Some windows glowed with televisions left on.Some flickered with mobile screens.Most stayed dark.
Her own reflection barely showed in the glass.
A face without light.Eyes alert.Jaw tight.
She liked it that way.
From above, she could see the crossing clearly.
The flickering streetlight made Jarnail’s shadow stretch.Then shrink.Then stretch again.
It made him look uncertain.
She knew better.
Jarnail did not hesitate without reason.
He did not pause for habit.
Every stop he madecarried weight.
Deepti pressed her lips together.
She remembered the first time she saw him stop like that.
Years ago.
Different city.Different street.Same stillness.
That night had changed everything.
She had not known it then.
No one ever does.
Her phone lay on the table behind her.
Silent.
She did not check it.
If something needed to reach her,it would.
Her attention stayed outside.
Jarnail shifted his weight slightly.
Just a fraction.
Enough to confirm what she already knew.
He was thinking.
Not planning.Not reacting.
Thinking.
That worried her more.
Planning can be interrupted.Thinking cannot.
A breeze moved the curtain.
She adjusted it carefully.
Half drawn again.
Always half.
Complete openness invited risk.Complete closure invited ignorance.
She preferred the space in between.
From her window, she could trace the path Jarnail had walked.
She knew his routine.
Not because she controlled it.Because she cared.
Caring requires observation.
Observation requires distance.
She had learned that too.
Her fingers tightened around the curtain’s edge.
The fabric was old.Soft from years of washing.
It grounded her.
Below, the streetlight buzzed.
Once.Twice.
Then steadied.
She flinched.
Small reactions reveal big fears.
She forced herself to relax.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Slow.
Controlled.
The way she taught herselfafter panic attacksshe never spoke about.
The way she survived.
Jarnail remained still.
Too still.
Time passed.
Minutes stretched thin.
She checked the clock on the wall.
11:44 p.m.
Late.
He should have been home already.
That fact sat heavy.
She had not called him.
Calling breaks concentration.
And she knew better than to break his.
Still, the silence clawed at her.
She wondered what he was considering.
She did not need specifics.
She understood the pattern.
Something from the pasthad reached forward.
It always did.
Some pasts refuse to stay buried.
Her own was proof.
A movement caught her eye.
A shadow near Jarnail.
Another person.
Deepti’s breath caught.
She leaned closer to the glass.
Careful.Slow.
Her pulse quickened.
The second figure stepped into the light.
Recognition came instantly.
Dyal.
Relief washed through her.Sharp.Brief.
Dyal meant complications.But not immediate danger.
She exhaled.
The breath felt loud in her ears.
She watched the two men stand together.
Close.But not relaxed.
Their body language spoke volumes.
Jarnail faced forward.
Dyal angled toward him.
A protective stance.
A familiar one.
Deepti’s eyes softened for a moment.
Dyal had always been like that.
Loyal.Direct.Unafraid to speak truths that cut.
She trusted him.
But trust did not erase fear.
She had seen loyal men make terrible choices.
She had seen direct men become reckless.
From above, she could not hear their words.
But she did not need to.
Some conversations speak through silence.
Jarnail did not move his hands much.
A sign of control.
Dyal shifted his weight more often.
A sign of urgency.
Deepti felt the imbalance.
Something was pushing.
Something was pulling back.
Her gaze drifted past them.
Down the road.
Into the darker stretch beyond the crossing.
Her instincts sharpened.
That space felt wrong.
Too empty.
Too quiet.
She had learned to respect such feelings.
They were never random.
Her phone vibrated once.
She did not look away.
She waited.
It vibrated again.
Then stopped.
A message would come if it mattered.
She stayed still.
Below, Jarnail finally moved.
Just one step.
Then stopped again.
Her heart tightened.
She knew that step.
It meant he was close to choosing.
She pressed her forehead lightly against the glass.
Cold.
Grounding.
“Don’t rush,” she whispered.
He could not hear her.
But whispers are sometimes for the speaker.
The streetlight flickered again.
This time, the light dimmed noticeably.
The shadows thickened.
Jarnail’s face fell partially into darkness.
She hated that.
She needed to see him clearly.
Clarity felt like control.
She did not have much of that lately.
Her mind wandered.
Unwanted.
She thought of Niranjan Singh.
The name surfaced like a bruise.
Unseen.Tender.
She had never liked him.
Even before she knew why.
Some people carry danger quietly.
Niranjan carried it like perfume.
Subtle.Lingering.
She had seen the way Jarnail reacted to that name.
The way his jaw tightened.The way his eyes hardened.
The way silence followed.
Niranjan Singh meant consequences.
If Jarnail was considering something tonight,it involved him.
Her fingers curled.
Anger stirred beneath fear.
Anger sharpened focus.
Good.
She watched Dyal step back.
Move away from the light.
Disappear into the darker edge.
That left Jarnail alone again.
More alone than before.
Deepti’s chest tightened.
Isolation magnifies decisions.
She had learned that the hard way.
The city made a sound then.
A distant siren.
Brief.Fading.
She wondered where it was headed.
She wondered if it was already too late.
Her phone vibrated again.
This time, she looked.
A message.
From Jarnail.
Two words.
Not yet.
Her throat tightened.
She typed back.
Take your time.
She stared at the screen.
Then added another line.
Just come back.
She did not send it.
Consideration applied to messages too.
She locked the phone.
Returned her gaze to the street.
Jarnail remained under the light.
Still.
Listening.
Thinking.
She noticed something then.
Something small.
His shoulders lowered slightly.
A release.
Not relief.
Resolve.
Her pulse spiked.
Resolve changes everything.
She watched as he took another step.
This one firmer.
Then another.
Across the crossing.
She leaned closer.
Heart racing.
He stopped again.
Midway.
Exactly midway.
As if marking the point of no return.
The symbolism was not lost on her.
She pressed her hand against the glass.
Flat.Steady.
The city seemed to lean in.
Waiting.
Finally, Jarnail turned.
Just enough.
He looked up.
Not directly at her window.
But close.
Too close to be coincidence.
Her breath stopped.
For a moment,she felt seen.
Understood.
Connected across distance and darkness.
Then he looked away.
The spell broke.
He stepped back.
Returned to the curb.
The crossing remained unclaimed.
Deepti released the breath she had been holding.
Her legs trembled.
She stepped away from the window.
Sat down slowly on the chair beside it.
Her heart thudded hard.
Fast.
She closed her eyes.
Just for a moment.
She pictured the future.
Multiple versions.
None simple.
None safe.
When she opened her eyes,she stood again.
Returned to the window.
Jarnail was still there.
Still considering.
She stayed with him.
From above.
From darkness.
From silence.
Because sometimes,watchingis the only help you can offer.
And sometimes,it is enough.
CHAPTER 3 — THE OLD NAME
Jarnail heard his name.
Soft.
From memory.
Not spoken aloud.Not whispered.
Remembered.
“Niranjan Singh.”
The name surfaced slowly.Like something rising from deep water.Reluctant.Unavoidable.
Jarnail stopped walking.
The street behind him blurred.The night folded inward.
Names carry weight.Some more than others.
This one was heavy.
It tasted bitter in his mouth.Like old metal.Like rust.Like blood on a coin.
He had not spoken it in years.
Not once.
Not in anger.Not in explanation.Not even in regret.
He had erased it from conversation.From records.From careful thoughts before sleep.
But memory does not obey rules.
Memory waits.
And then it speaks.
Niranjan Singh.
The sound pressed against his chest.Not sharp.Not sudden.
Slow.
Like pressure building behind a wall.
Jarnail leaned against the nearest building.
Cold concrete met his shoulder.
The city noise thinned.Pulled away.
What remained was the past.
It always arrived intact.
A small office came back to him.Yellowed walls.A ceiling fan clicking unevenly.
Click.Pause.Click.
Niranjan sat behind a desk.
Relaxed.Comfortable.
As if the chair had been built for him.
Power rested on him naturally.Like gravity.
“You think before you act,” Niranjan had said that day.
A compliment.
Or a warning.
Jarnail had not known which.
He was younger then.Still careful.Still convinced that consideration could protect him.
That if he paused long enough,the right answer would appear on its own.
Niranjan smiled at such beliefs.
He always did.
The memory sharpened.
Niranjan leaned forward slightly.Lowered his voice.
“People rush,” he said.“They make noise.They make mistakes.”
He paused deliberately.
“But you,” he continued,“you wait.”
Jarnail had felt pride.
That was the first mistake.
The name echoed again.
Niranjan Singh.
It never sounded cruel.Never threatening.
That was why it endured.
Threats burn quickly.Control settles quietly.
Niranjan never raised his voice.Never demanded obedience.
He offered options.
Choices shaped carefully.Consequences hidden behind reason.
Jarnail remembered how rooms changed when Niranjan entered.
Conversations slowed.People listened.
Not because they feared him.
Because they trusted him.
That trust had been expensive.
Jarnail opened his eyes.
The wall before him was cracked.Paint peeling.Old posters clinging without purpose.
He traced one long crack with his finger.
It reminded him of another.
An invisible line.
The one he crossed without realizing.
The first file had been thin.Almost ordinary.
“Just sign,” Niranjan had said.
Jarnail had paused.
He always paused.
“What is it?” he had asked.
Niranjan smiled.
“Nothing illegal,” he replied.
“Just selective.”
That word again.
Selective.
Consideration disguised as compromise.
The pen had felt heavy in Jarnail’s hand.
Blue ink.Smooth grip.
It rested there longer than necessary.
That pause could have saved him.
Instead, it bound him.
He signed.
The city returned in fragments.
A horn.A distant laugh.Footsteps somewhere behind him.
Jarnail straightened.
His heartbeat was steady.
Too steady.
Fear would have been easier.
Fear gives direction.
Calm allows justification.
Some names follow you anyway.
No matter how carefully you avoid them.
Niranjan Singh followed him through promotions.Through quiet transfers.Through decisions explained as duty.
He followed him into marriage.
Into Deepti’s questions.
Into answers that were incomplete by design.
Deepti had always sensed it.
The silence.The weight behind his pauses.
“What aren’t you saying?” she once asked.
He had smiled.Changed the subject.
Consideration had become avoidance.
That was the second mistake.
Jarnail pushed himself away from the wall.
He walked again.
Each step measured.
As if the road demanded permission.
The streetlight ahead flickered.
Buzzed.
The sound crawled into him.
It reminded him of the ceiling fan.
Click.Pause.Click.
Time passing.
Waiting.
Niranjan never forced people.
That was his greatest control.
He let others decide.
Let them feel responsible.
“Choices feel cleaner when they’re yours,” Niranjan once said.
Jarnail had agreed.
Too many times.
The bitterness returned.
Stronger now.
He tasted iron again.
Then came the memory he avoided most.
Rain had been falling that night.
Hard.Relentless.
The streets empty.
Niranjan had called late.
“I need you,” he said.
No urgency.
No explanation.
Jarnail had gone.
He always did.
The warehouse had been too bright.Lights harsh.Shadows sharp.
A man sat tied to a chair.
Fear visible.
Breathing uneven.
Niranjan stood nearby.
Calm.
Detached.
“Just watch,” he said.
“Understand.”
Understanding arrived quickly.
Acceptance followed.
Regret came last.
Niranjan never touched the man.
He did not need to.
Others did.
Jarnail stood still.
He considered intervening.
Measured consequences.
Careers.Lives.Silence.
And he did nothing.
That was the unseen choice.
The man’s eyes met his.
Not accusing.
Not begging.
Just knowing.
That look stayed.
Longer than any name.
Jarnail stopped walking again.
His breathing tightened.
He forced it slow.
Controlled.
He was not there anymore.
But memory ignores distance.
“Niranjan Singh.”
The name came again.
Closer this time.
As if spoken just behind him.
He turned.
Nothing.
Only the street.Only darkness.
Only the past refusing to stay buried.
What frightened him most was not Niranjan.
It was relevance.
That after all these years,the name still held power.
That consideration, once noble,had been trained into silence.
Jarnail resumed walking.
Faster now.
Purpose sharpened.
The bitterness remained.
But clarity joined it.
Some names follow you anyway.
But some must be faced.
Not erased.Not avoided.
Considered.
Fully.
For the first time.
At the end of the street, the city opened.
Lights.Movement.Noise.
Life continuing without permission.
Jarnail stepped into it.
The name stayed with him.
It always would.
Until consideration became action.
And somewhere unseen,Niranjan Singh was listening.
CHAPTER 4 — A PROMISE LEFT BEHIND
Years ago, Jarnail promised something.
He did not promise forgiveness.He did not promise mercy.
He promised to consider.
That was worse.
The promise was made in a small room.Low ceiling.Peeling paint.
The kind of room where voices echo even when whispered.
Rain had fallen that day.Relentless.Patient.
Water crept through cracks in the window frame and gathered on the floor.Not enough to flood.Enough to remind.
Jarnail stood near the wall.
Back straight.Hands open.
Niranjan Singh sat across the table.
Relaxed.
That was always his strength.Comfort in places where others tightened.
The room smelled of damp cloth and old files.
A single bulb hung overhead.Yellow light.Unkind.
It swayed slightly.
Each movement pulled shadows across Niranjan’s face.Across his smile.
“You look tired,” Niranjan said.
Concern sounded convincing when practiced.
Jarnail did not reply.
Silence was safer.
Silence gave nothing away.
Niranjan leaned forward.
“Elbows on the table,” he said casually.
“You always do that when you’re cornered.”
Jarnail remained still.
He had learned not to react.
Reaction feeds men like Niranjan.
Outside, thunder rolled.
Slow.Distant.
Not threatening.
Yet.
Niranjan tapped the table once.
A soft sound.
It carried weight.
“We can end this cleanly,” he said.
Clean.
The word hovered.
Nothing about the room was clean.Nothing about the past was.
Jarnail lifted his eyes.
For the first time.
Niranjan noticed.
The smile faded slightly.
Not fear.Interest.
“You want something,” Jarnail said.
His voice was calm.
It surprised even him.
Niranjan nodded.
“I always do.”
He slid a file across the table.
Brown.Thin.
It stopped inches from Jarnail’s hand.
“Open it,” Niranjan said.
Jarnail did not.
He already knew.
Names.Dates.Photographs.
Evidence that could bury people.Evidence that could erase him.
Niranjan waited.
Patience was another weapon.
“Open it,” he repeated.
Jarnail placed one finger on the file.
Then withdrew his hand.
“No,” he said.
The word landed heavily.
The bulb flickered.
Niranjan exhaled.
Slow.
“You misunderstand,” he said.
“This isn’t a request.”
Jarnail nodded.
“I know.”
Silence returned.
Rain struck the windows harder now.
The storm had decided.
Niranjan leaned back.
“Then let’s talk about promises,” he said.
That word cut deeper than threats.
Jarnail’s jaw tightened.
“Promises,” Niranjan continued,“are funny things.”
“They sound noble.”
“They ruin people.”
Jarnail did not argue.
He had seen promises destroy lives.
He had made some himself.
“You owe me,” Niranjan said.
