The heavy atmosphere of the mansion faded, replaced by the hazy, suffocating warmth of a memory from years ago.
The night was quiet, save for the rhythmic, laboured breathing of Meira's mother. A young, wide-eyed Meira sat huddled on the edge of the bed, her small hand resting near her mother's pale arm. The room smelled of bitter medicines and old wood.
Suddenly, the silence was broken by the sharp, persistent ring of the telephone.
Meira's grandmother, a woman whose face was a map of hidden sorrows, moved to answer it. Meira watched her intently. The grandmother didn't speak for a long time, listening to the voice on the other end with a grave, frozen silence. The light from the hallway cast a long shadow across her face, making her look like a statue. She hung up the receiver with a slow, deliberate motion, but she didn't move away from the phone. The call ended.
"Who was it?" Meira asked.
"Nothing," the grandmother finally responded, her voice a low, hollow rasp. "Don't worry."
"Grandmother?" Meira whispered, looking from the sleeping figure of her mother to the elder woman. "Mom will be fine, right? This time... she's taking a much longer time to get well."
The grandmother turned. Her eyes were filled with a truth she wasn't ready to share, but as she looked at Meira—the child who looked so much like the girl the Salais were trying to replace—her expression softened. She offered a mild, fragile smile, a flickering candle of hope in the gloom.
"Sleep now, Meira," the grandmother murmured, stroking the child's hair. "Hope is a heavy thing, but it is all we have."
Little Meira nodded, leaning her head back against the pillow beside her mother, unaware that the call her grandmother had just received was a thread connecting their small world.
The silence of the mansion felt like a physical weight. Meira pushed the memories of her mother's bedside away, refusing to let the grief consume her tonight. Sleep was clearly out of the question, so she decided to channel her restless energy into her work assignment. Maybe a sugar rush and some logic would drown out the shadows.
She made her way to the kitchen, the cold marble floor biting at her heels. After grabbing a tin of cookies, she began the long walk back. But as she turned the corner, she found herself standing before the locked door again.
The sight of it sent a shiver of dread through her. How did I get to the backyard that night? she wondered, her eyes fixed on the dark wood. What happened in the gap between this door opening and me waking up on the grass?
Then, the air turned freezing.
Ssssss...
The hissing didn't just start; it erupted, vibrating in the very marrow of her bones. Meira squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the sound, and began to walk faster. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. It's just the wind. It's just the house; she lied to herself.
But the voice grew intense, echoing the malice of the elder brother's curse, swirling around her like a physical force. She broke into a near-run, her breath coming in shallow gasps.
Suddenly, the darkness behind her materialized.
A cold, powerful hand lurched forward, wrapping violently around her throat. The grip was precise and brutal, tightening instantly over her windpipe. Meira's cookies hit the floor with a hollow clang as she clawed at the arm, her vision beginning to blur into dark spots. She thrashed, trying to turn her head to see the face of her attacker—who was it? A shadow? The curse itself?
The grip loosened just a fraction—perhaps out of a predatory hesitation—and in that split second, Meira gathered every ounce of air left in her lungs.
She screamed. A piercing, soul-shattering sound that ripped through the quiet of Roopa Mansion like a jagged blade.