Amara stood in her room, staring at the words written in the dust:
"You are not alone."
Ravi stood beside her. The wind had stopped. The silence felt heavy, as if the house were holding its breath. Amara touched the letter with her fingertips. The handwriting was too familiar.
She Dropped the Letter...
It looked just like the notes her fiancé used to leave on the fridge. Her chest tightened.
"How is this possible?" she whispered.
Ravi Looked at her...
Her voice shook. She felt a cold chill travel down her back.
Ravi looked around the room, his eyes scanning the walls and ceiling.
"I don't know," he said quietly.
"But I don't think we should stay here right now. Let's go back to the kitchen. It's warmer there, and we can talk."
They walked down the creaking stairs. Each step groaned under their weight.
Creeeak… Creeeak…
Amara's Heart was racing very Loud...
Thump...Thump..Thump..
Amara Sat on the Chair in Kitchen.... and after she felt bit calm...
In the kitchen, the fire had burned low. Amara Stood up and added more wood, the flames sprang up, casting shadows on the walls.
She Sat down on Chair,
Crackle… Crackle…
Amara wrapped her arms around herself. "That handwriting," she said, "it looks like someone I loved. He died a year ago. I don't understand."
Ravi sat on the chair across from her... Amara bit looked at him...
He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "Sometimes," he said, "old places remember the people who lived and loved in them. My mother told me that memories stay in the wood, in the stone. The wind might carry them. Maybe your memory and this house's memory are touching."
Amara stared into the flames. "It feels like the house is talking to me," she said. "First the dream, then the wind whispering, and now this message.
I'm scared, but… I also feel drawn to it."
There was a pause. Ravi watched her for a moment,
then asked, "Why did you let me in? You didn't know me. You could have told me to go away. How could you trust me so easily?"
Amara looked up, surprised by his question..
She thought back to her aunt's letter and smiled slightly.
"My aunt wrote about you in her letter, she said.
"She said if a young man named Ravi ever knocked on my door, I should know he grew up near here and that he was kind. She said you used to help around the estate. So when you said your name, I felt like I already knew you. That's why I let you in."
Ravi's shoulders relaxed a bit. He nodded. "Your aunt was a wise woman," he said softly. "I helped your family with chores when I was a boy. I'm glad she remembered me."
They sat in quiet understanding for a moment before,
Amara spoke again. "We still need to understand what happened here," she said. "I can't keep thinking of this as just an old house. It's more than that."
Ravi nodded. "I can take you to someone in the village who knows the history of this house. Her name is Nanda. She is old, but she remembers everything."
Amara hesitated. "Okay," she said. "But not tonight. I can't leave the house now. What if it… needs me?" She smiled weakly at her own thought. It seemed silly, but she couldn't shake the feeling that the house wanted something from her.
Ravi's grey eyes softened. "Then we'll stay," he said. "Let's make sure all the doors and windows are secure. The storm may have caused that crash."
They checked the ground floor, pushing heavy chairs against the doors to keep them from banging. In the hallway, Amara picked up a candlestick to use as a lamp.
Amara and Ravi explored the rooms together, one by one. The wind had left leaves and dirt on the floors. In a study near the back, they found a desk with drawers. One of the drawers was locked, but the old wood was weak. Ravi pulled, and the drawer came free.
Inside were yellowed papers tied with ribbon. There were letters, written in a neat hand. The first one they opened was dated 1925.
"My dearest Asha," it began. "I have hidden this letter in the hope that, one day, you will read it and know the truth of my heart…"
Amara looked at Ravi. "A love letter," she said. Her fingers trembled as she turned the page. "It's in English. Read it with me."
They sat on the dusty floor, the candle between them, and read the letter aloud. It told of a young woman named Asha who had fallen in love with someone her family did not approve of. The writer promised to wait for her at the old house, no matter what happened.
Amara felt her throat tighten. "Do you think they ever met?" she asked.
Ravi shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe we'll find more letters. Maybe there was a tragedy here."
A gust of wind whistled down the corridor. Somewhere upstairs, a door slammed.
Bang!
They both jumped. The house seemed to have woken up again. The fire flickered. The candle flame wavered.
"Did you hear that?" Amara whispered.
"Yes," Ravi said. He stood slowly. "Let's go back to the kitchen. It's safer there."
As they walked back, the wind picked up, rushing past their ears. It whispered words that Amara couldn't quite understand.
Wooooshhh… Whoooo…
She stopped and closed her eyes, trying to listen. She thought she heard her name, soft and drawn out, like in her dream. She opened her eyes quickly. "Did you hear that?" she asked Ravi.
"Hear what?" he asked, pausing to look at her.
"My name," she said. "The wind said my name."
Ravi's brow furrowed. "I didn't hear it. But I don't doubt you. You're connected to this place now. The house is speaking to you. We will figure out why."
They spent the rest of the night in the kitchen, seated near the fire. The wind continued to bang doors and rattle windows, then went quiet, then started again. The house seemed alive.