The day after the night of spirits, everything seemed calmer. The house at the end of Hollow Lane was quiet, almost gentle. The angry bangs and whispers were gone. The floors no longer shook. Only the soft rustle of leaves could be heard through the old windows.
Amara and Ravi stood together in the doorway of Asha's bedroom, looking around. The mirror was clear now, and the air smelled faintly of jasmine and old wood. Amara could feel the peace, but she also felt something under it, like a thread she could not see but knew was there.
"Is it over?" Ravi asked, his voice low, as if afraid to wake something.
Amara shook her head. "It feels better. But there was that root… the one by the banyan. It moved." She frowned. "I think something else is still here."
Ravi looked down at their hands. He still held hers gently, his thumb brushing her knuckles. "We need to check it. We can't ignore the tree. It was connected to everything."
They went down the stairs and out into the yard. The rain had stopped, but the ground was damp, and the air felt heavy. The big banyan tree at the edge of the garden stood like a silent giant, its branches spreading wide. Its roots coiled and twisted through the soil.
They walked up to the spot where they had lifted the stone slab. The slab was slightly ajar, and the dark soil underneath was exposed. Amara knelt and touched the ground next to it. It was cool and soft. She dug her fingers in a little, feeling for anything strange.
"I think I imagined it," she said after a moment. "It's just a root."
Ravi crouched beside her. "Sometimes roots move when the ground settles," he said, trying to reassure her. But his eyes were serious.
Just then, a soft breeze moved through the branches, and a whisper seemed to ride on it. It was not like Asha's voice. It was thinner, younger.
"Help," it said.
Amara flinched and looked at Ravi. "Did you hear that?"
He nodded slowly. "Yes. It wasn't your imagination." He touched the root. It did not move. He stood and looked toward the road. "Maybe Nanda knows more."
They walked to the village. The path felt shorter than before. Maybe because the air was lighter now, or maybe because they were no longer alone with their secrets. Houses appeared with smoke rising from small chimneys. Children played in the dirt. People waved or nodded at them, as if they knew something good had happened.
Nanda, the old woman who had told them about Asha and Raghav, was sitting on a bench outside her hut, shelling beans. She looked up, her eyes kind and knowing.
"Ah, my children," she said, smiling. "You have done well. The house feels lighter. The wind told me." She looked at their faces. "But you still have questions."
"There is something under the banyan," Ravi said. "We heard a voice. A child's voice. Do you know what it might be?"
Nanda's smile faded. She stared past them for a moment, as if looking into another time. "Yes," she whispered. "I feared this."
She motioned for them to sit. "Long before the big house was built, before Asha and Raghav, the banyan was already old. People used to come here during floods because the tree stood on high ground. One year, the river overflowed. A group of travelers took shelter at the banyan. Among them was a little girl named Meera. They tied her to the tree so she would not be swept away. They promised to stay. But when the water rose, they untied themselves and ran. They left her tied there. The flood never reached her. She died from fear and hunger. Her spirit sank into the roots."
Amara's heart tightened. "No one helped her?"
"No one knew until it was too late," Nanda said softly. "Her story is forgotten by most. But sometimes, when the earth shakes or floods come, people hear her. Maybe she called you because she trusts you. You freed Asha. Maybe you can free her too."
"How?" Amara asked, her throat dry. "We don't know anything about her except her name."
Nanda picked up a handful of beans and let them fall slowly into her lap. "Sometimes spirits need to be seen and heard. They need someone to remember them. If you can find something that belonged to her, something she loved, and if you can tell her story, maybe she will find peace."
Amara and Ravi looked at each other. They thanked Nanda and walked back to the house, thinking hard. The banyan felt older than ever. The voice had sounded young, hopeful, and afraid.
They decided to search the house for clues. They climbed to the attic, a dusty space filled with trunks and old blankets. Light fell through small windows, making patterns on the floor.
They opened trunk after trunk. Most were full of clothes, old letters, or broken toys. Then they found a small wooden box tucked away behind a pile of quilts. Inside was a cloth-covered book, no bigger than Amara's hand. The edges were worn smooth from use. There were also a few small carved animals.
Amara opened the little book. The handwriting was neat, rounded. The first page said, "This book belongs to Meera." Her heart sped up. She had found the girl. She turned the pages carefully. The book was a journal. Meera wrote about everyday things: feeding goats, fetching water, playing with cats. Her words were simple, full of small joys and worries. One entry said, "Grandmother said I must wear my red dress because the travelers are coming." Another said, "I fed the birds today. They were so hungry. I like birds."
The last page was different. The handwriting was shaky. It said, "The river is rising. The travelers say we must tie our hands to the tree. I am scared. Grandmother is not here. I want to run, but there is nowhere to go."
Amara closed the book gently. She felt tears in her eyes. "She wrote this herself," she whispered. "She knew she would be left."
"Meera loved birds," Ravi said, picking up one of the carved animals. It was a little bird, its wings spread as if ready to fly. "Maybe this was hers."
They took the journal and the bird charm to the banyan tree at dusk. The sky was pink and gold. The air was warm. They placed the book and the bird at the base of the tree, near the root.
Amara knelt and pressed her hand to the earth. "Meera," she said softly, "we found your book. We read your words. We know what happened. You were scared and alone. We are sorry. We bring your bird back to you. We want you to be free. You are not forgotten."
Ravi touched the roots gently. "You loved birds and stories," he said. "We read your stories. They were simple and true. You mattered. We hear you now."
The wind moved through the leaves overhead, not angry or cold. Amara felt a warmth under her hand, as if someone small had taken it. The root under the soil moved slowly, then settled. It did not twist. It relaxed. The voice she had heard before whispered again, but now it sounded like a sigh of relief.
"Thank you," it breathed, softer than the last time. It faded into the rustle of leaves.
Amara looked at Ravi. He looked back at her. There were tears in his eyes too, but he smiled. They sat together under the banyan, their shoulders touching. They didn't speak. They didn't need to. They had done something good together.
The house behind them felt lighter. The ground under the tree hummed softly, like a lullaby. The night carried the sounds of insects and the soft mewing of the black cat. It brushed against their legs and then curled up at their feet, purring.
Amara took Ravi's hand. She didn't know what tomorrow would bring. Would they stay in this house? Would they leave for the city? Would they try to build a life together? She only knew that she was not afraid of the house anymore. She was not afraid of love. She had faced ghosts, shadows, and roots. She had listened and spoken, and the world had changed. That was enough for now.
They watched the sun set and the stars appear. The banyan tree stood silent and steady above them, its roots deep in the earth, its branches reaching for the sky. For the first time, Amara felt she could rest here. The horror was gone. Peace had come. And something else—something gentle and warm—was beginning.