A fragile calm
For the first time in months, Meera woke to stillness. No flickering lights, no cold air brushing her cheek, no whisper threaded through her dreams. Morning light spilled softly across the floorboards.
Anaya hummed while brushing her hair, her small voice bright again. "Mama, it's so quiet now," she said, almost surprised.
"Yes," Meera answered, forcing a smile. "Quiet is good."
But as she said the words, she realized how heavy the quiet felt—like a house holding its breath.
The weight of memory
Over the next few days, Meera tried to rebuild their rhythm. She cooked the foods Anaya liked best, reopened windows long kept shut, and played music in the evenings.
Sometimes she caught herself glancing toward the corner where Rajiv's chair had stood. The empty space seemed to hum faintly, as if waiting.
On the fourth morning, she found a small hand-drawn card on the kitchen counter: "To Papa, from Anaya."
Her heart clenched. "Did you make this at school, beta?"
Anaya nodded. "We had family day. I wanted to keep it here, so Papa can see."
Meera touched the card gently. "He'll see it," she said, though a small unease stirred inside her chest.
Little things
At first, the signs were almost easy to dismiss.
A picture frame tilted slightly on its hook. A faint smell of Rajiv's cologne lingered even after she'd packed his things away. The television turned on once—just static—then switched off before she could reach it.
Old wiring, she told herself. Old habits of the mind.
But each time, her heart beat a little faster.
The sound of footsteps
Late one night, Meera awoke to the soft creak of floorboards in the hallway. She listened carefully. Anaya was asleep beside her.
The sound came again—slow, measured, unmistakably human.
She sat up, every muscle taut. "Rajiv?" she whispered, the name escaping before she could stop it.
Silence. Then, from the living room, the faint clink of metal—like someone brushing against the wind chime he had hung years ago.
Meera rose quietly, padding down the hallway. The living room lay empty. The chime swayed gently, though no window was open.
For a moment, she thought she smelled smoke—not harsh, but the faint warmth of a ritual fire long burned out.
Morning reassurance
The next morning, she told herself it was imagination. Grief plays tricks, she thought.
Anaya skipped into the kitchen, cheerful. "Mama, I dreamed about Papa! He said he's proud of you."
Meera froze mid-stir. "Did he?"
"Yes," Anaya said, buttering her toast. "He said the fire didn't hurt. It just made him shiny."
The words were innocent, yet they chilled Meera.
A visit to the temple
She went again to Pandit Devnath. The priest looked worn, dark circles under his eyes.
"I thought the ritual was finished," Meera said. "But sometimes I feel… watched."
Devnath sighed. "A binding that strong rarely breaks cleanly. If a single thread of attachment remains—an object, a thought, even longing—it can keep the doorway open. Keep faith, child. Continue your prayers, but do not invite him."
Meera frowned. "Invite?"
"Do not speak to him," he said firmly. "Do not answer the house if it calls."
Anaya's secret smile
That evening, Meera found Anaya in her room, drawing circles with chalk on the floor.
"What are you making?"
Anaya grinned. "A door."
"A door?"
"For Papa. He says he can visit if I make one. Only sometimes."
Meera's throat went dry. "Anaya, you mustn't do that. Remember what Pandit Uncle said—we have to let Papa rest."
"But he said he's already resting, Mama. He just wants to see us."
Meera wiped the chalk away, her movements sharp. "No more doors, beta. Promise me."
Anaya's face fell, then she whispered, "You're making him sad again."
The lull before dusk
For a few days, things settled. Anaya stopped talking about her father. Meera dared to hope.
She even began sleeping in her own bed again, though her dreams were uneasy—flashes of fire, a whispering wind, a voice half-heard.
Then, one evening near dusk, she noticed something strange. The shadows of the furniture stretched longer than they should have, spilling toward the window. They moved faintly even though the air was still.
She blinked, and they were ordinary again.
The forgotten watch
When Meera opened a cupboard later that night, she found Rajiv's wristwatch lying on the shelf. She was certain she had burned it during the ritual. The metal gleamed faintly, its hands ticking softly though the battery had long since died.
She touched it carefully. The ticking stopped.
Heart pounding, she wrapped it in a cloth and carried it outside. The night air was cool; the garden shimmered with moonlight. She buried the watch beneath the tulsi plant and whispered a prayer.
When she turned back toward the house, a shadow crossed one of the upstairs windows.
Anaya's dream
The next morning, Anaya was pale and quiet.
"Did you sleep?" Meera asked.
Anaya shook her head. "Papa looked different last night. He was standing far away. He didn't smile."
Meera pulled her close. "Sometimes dreams feel real, beta. But dreams can't hurt you."
Anaya whispered, "He said you took something that belongs to him."
Meera felt cold all over.
The night of rain
That evening, clouds rolled in and rain lashed the house. Thunder rattled the windows.
Meera lit a candle near the prayer shelf, murmuring the simplest mantras she knew. Anaya sat beside her, clutching her stuffed bear.
"See?" Meera said softly. "We're safe. The storm will pass."
But the candle flickered violently, guttered, then went out.
The room plunged into darkness.
And somewhere above them, the wind chime rang—slow and deliberate, as though touched by a careful hand.
Holding her ground
Meera stood, heart pounding. "No," she whispered into the dark. "You can't come back. You're free now. Stay where you are."
Lightning flashed, illuminating the room for a heartbeat. In that flash, she thought she saw him—not solid, but a faint outline near the stairway, eyes glinting with longing. Then he was gone.
Anaya whimpered. "Mama, he's trying to talk."
Meera gathered her daughter close. "We won't listen," she said firmly, voice shaking. "We love him, but we won't listen."
Dawn after the storm
By morning, the rain had stopped. The house smelled faintly of wet earth and something else—warm, like the scent of ashes after fire.
Meera opened every window, letting sunlight pour in. She hung garlands of marigold, sprinkled holy water again, and sang softly while she cleaned.
Anaya helped, humming with her. When they finished, the house felt lighter.
For the first time, Meera dared to believe it might finally be over.
The photograph
That evening, as they prepared for dinner, Anaya brought her a frame. It was Rajiv's favorite photo again—but now, in the reflection of the glass, Meera thought she saw three faint shapes instead of two.
"Look, Mama," Anaya said. "Papa's smiling again."
Meera studied the picture. Rajiv's face did look brighter, clearer. But behind him, faint as breath, lingered a ripple of light—like someone else just out of sight.
She smiled gently and set the frame back on the shelf. "Maybe he's smiling because he knows we're okay."
Inside, though, she couldn't shake the feeling that the quiet had learned how to breathe again.
Closing scene
That night, the house was peaceful. Meera read Anaya a story, tucked her in, and kissed her goodnight.
She lingered at the doorway for a moment, watching her daughter's steady breathing.
Then she turned toward her own room.
As she passed the window, she glanced outside—and saw the tulsi plant stirring in a breeze that wasn't there.
A faint ticking echoed from beneath the soil.