The Mordol house, known to the villagers as Mordol Bari, had always been imposing, even in sunlight. But by night, it became a different world — a world of shadows, whispers, and memories that refused to rest. The house sat surrounded by towering trees, and behind it, the river wound quietly through the darkness. The wind rustled the branches, carrying with it the soft, incessant chorus of crickets. Their song, so persistent, felt like it was echoing the restless thoughts of those who had walked the house before.
Sarah sat alone on the veranda, knees pulled to her chest, the thin shawl she wore barely keeping the chill away. Moonlight spilled through the lattice of trees, scattering silver across the yard. Her eyes were fixed on the darkness beyond the railings, but her mind was somewhere else entirely. Memories long buried crept back into the corners of her thoughts — small moments that had shaped the fear she carried silently, even as a child.
It was a night much like this one, years ago, that her life had shifted quietly but irrevocably. The village had been alive with the festival at Nana's house, laughter spilling from the school field, the smell of sweets and incense filling the air. Children had raced across the ground, holding balloons and paper lanterns. Sarah had been left behind — not because she wanted to, but because something told her that following that night's chaos would only make her invisible, a shadow in the crowd.
She remembered the house being unusually still. Even the river seemed to have hushed. Shadows clung to every corner, every doorway, and a sudden silence had made her small body tense. It was supposed to be a safe place. It had been a house where relatives visited, where cousins played and uncles laughed. But that night, the house betrayed its promise.
A presence she had trusted had approached her, speaking in a soft, coaxing tone. At first, it had seemed protective, even kind. But when she entered the room, a strange heaviness filled the air. The floorboards seemed too close, the shadows too long. She had obeyed, because obedience had always been what children did — and because she didn't yet understand the world's capacity for betrayal.
Sarah had felt fear then, though she didn't have the words to name it. She had felt confusion, a suffocating weight of dread. And when she returned to the safety of her room that night, she had carried a secret she could not tell anyone — not her sisters, not her father, not even Shahana. That secret had lodged inside her heart like a stone, and she had spent years moving carefully around it, shaping her life to avoid its edges.
Shahana had noticed the changes in her daughter, even when Sarah's lips were sealed. The trembling, the sudden quietness, the way Sarah flinched when a certain name was spoken — signs that spoke louder than any words. And yet, Shahana had also learned patience. Some pain, she knew, must be coaxed into the light slowly.
Tonight, the moment had come. Shahana had returned from the fields earlier than usual, her heart heavy with the knowledge that silence had gone on too long. She stepped onto the veranda, the lamplight flickering across her face. Her eyes found Sarah's, wide and guarded, reflecting both fear and the faint glimmer of trust.
"Sarah," Shahana said softly, taking the shawl from her shoulders and draping it gently over her daughter, "some secrets weigh too much for a single pair of shoulders. It is time to share them."
Sarah swallowed, the lump in her throat making words impossible for a moment. The crickets' song seemed to fade around her. "Ma…" she whispered finally. "I… I was too afraid. I thought… I could handle it on my own. I didn't want to… I didn't want you to be upset."
Shahana took her daughter's hands in her own, holding them firmly. "Sarah, listen to me. The world can be cruel, yes. But it is not stronger than love, and it is not stronger than truth. You never should have carried this alone."
Tears gathered in Sarah's eyes, spilling down her cheeks. She had spent years hiding the tremors of fear that still shook her in the dark, the quiet panic that had refused to leave her heart. Now, for the first time, she felt her mother's presence as a shield rather than just a comfort.
She began to speak — not the exact details, not the horrors of what had occurred, but the essence of the fear that had shaped her childhood. She spoke of the confusion, the betrayal, the heavy weight of silence. And Shahana listened, letting each word fall like rain into her own grief.
The air around the house seemed to change. The darkness remained, but the edges softened. Shadows on the veranda walls no longer seemed like looming threats. Instead, they were witnesses to the bond slowly being repaired, to a trust finally restored.
"Sarah," Shahana whispered after a long silence, "what you endured… it is not your fault. And it never was. We cannot undo the past, but we can protect your future. And we will."
Outside, the river reflected the moonlight, silver and serene. The night, once so full of echoes of fear, now held a fragile sense of peace. For the first time in years, Sarah exhaled fully, letting some of the burden slip from her shoulders.
Shahana pulled her close, resting her chin on her daughter's hair. "You are safe now. And from this night forward, you will never have to carry anything alone again."
The house at Mordol Bari, with all its history, shadows, and unspoken stories, seemed to settle. Somewhere between the rustling trees and the silvered river, Sarah felt the first stirrings of freedom from the silence that had held her captive for so long.
She leaned against her mother, listening to the night, listening to herself, and finally — for the first time in years — felt that the echoes could be quieted.