Part 1
The Lankar mansion stood quietly on the edge of Arelia City, away from the noise and rush of everyday life. It was a large house, built many years ago, with wide corridors, tall windows, and walls that had seen generations grow and fade. During the day, it looked peaceful. At night, it felt different. The silence was deeper, heavier, as if the house was always listening.
Jihan Lankar had lived in this house all his life.
He was the elder son of the Lankar family. Calm, reserved, and careful with words. People often described him as cold, but in truth, Jihan simply carried more weight than others. Responsibility had come to him early, and he had learned to live with it quietly.
His real mother had died when he was still young. After her death, the warmth in the house slowly disappeared. His father, Rashid Lankar, buried himself in work. Meetings, business trips, and long days replaced conversations and shared meals.
Years later, Rashid remarried.
That was when Naira entered the house.
Naira Lankar was polite, well-dressed, and always composed. She spoke softly and smiled when needed. But Jihan could feel the distance from the very beginning. She never treated him badly, yet she never treated him like her own. There was always a thin wall between them, invisible but firm.
Naira had a son—Aslam.
Aslam was the youngest in the house, and the complete opposite of Jihan. He laughed easily, joked often, and had a habit of turning serious moments into lighter ones. Where Jihan stayed silent, Aslam spoke. Where Jihan thought deeply, Aslam acted freely.
"Brother," Aslam often said with a grin, "if you keep standing like that, people will think you're guarding the house."
Jihan would shake his head slightly, a faint smile appearing for just a moment.
Aslam was Naira's biological son, but his heart belonged to Jihan. He trusted his elder brother more than anyone. Jihan, in return, protected Aslam without making it obvious. He watched over him quietly, like a shadow that never left.
The only person who truly understood Jihan was his grandmother, Azima.
Azima Lankar was old, but her mind was sharp. She had seen this house change, watched relationships break and mend, and learned that silence often spoke louder than words. She noticed Jihan's long hours on the balcony at night, the way his eyes followed the city lights without really seeing them.
She also knew something else.
The Lankar mansion held memories that were not at rest.
Over time, small things began to feel strange. Doors that were properly closed would be found open. Soft footsteps echoed in the corridors at night when everyone was asleep. The air in certain rooms felt colder, heavier, without reason.
The servants noticed it first. Some refused to stay after sunset. Others left without explanation.
No one spoke openly about fear, but everyone felt it.
One night, Aslam knocked on Jihan's door.
"Brother," he said, trying to sound casual, "can I stay here for a bit?"
Jihan looked up from his book. "What happened?"
Aslam scratched his head. "Nothing. Just… the house feels weird today."
He tried to laugh, but it didn't sound real.
Jihan closed the book. "Sit down."
Aslam sat, lowering his voice. "I feel like someone is watching me. I know it sounds stupid."
"Fear is not stupid," Jihan replied calmly. "Ignoring it is."
That night, neither of them slept well. The house felt unusually cold, as if something unseen was moving through it.
The next morning, Azima called Jihan to her room.
"You need to hear this," she said softly.
Jihan sat beside her.
"This house was built with promises," Azima continued. "And one of those promises was broken."
Jihan frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Long ago," she said, "a decision was made out of greed. Someone's rightful share was taken away. That pain stayed here."
"Who?" Jihan asked.
Azima looked away. "The truth reveals itself when the time is right."
From that day on, the strange events increased. Aslam claimed he saw a shadow near the staircase. Naira often stayed awake late at night, moving through the halls quietly. Jihan sometimes heard his name whispered when no one was around.
One stormy evening, the power went out.
The mansion was covered in darkness.
Aslam tried to joke. "Looks like even the lights are scared of this place."
But his voice trembled.
Heavy footsteps echoed from upstairs. Slow. Deliberate.
Azima whispered, "It has awakened."
Aslam grabbed Jihan's arm. "Brother… what is it?"
No one answered.
Over the next few days, the truth about Naira slowly surfaced. She wanted the entire property transferred to Aslam's name. She believed it was her son's right. Quietly, she had tried to change documents that should never have been touched.
When Aslam found out, he was shaken.
"I don't want any of this," he said, his voice breaking. "Not like this. Never like this."
Jihan placed a hand on his shoulder. "I know. And I believe you."
But the house did not forget.
One night, whispers filled the walls. Jihan heard his name called from the hallway.
"Jihan…"
The voice was low, hollow, not fully human.
He stepped out. The corridor was empty, but the cold was sharp.
Near the staircase, a shadow moved. Not clear. Just a shape. Heavy with anger.
Aslam stood behind him. "Brother… it's there."
A deep voice echoed.
"The right… must return."
Jihan held Aslam's hand tightly.
In that moment, he understood.
This house was not only a home.
It was a witness.
It had watched injustice happen.
And now it wanted balance.
The doors of the mansion slowly closed on their own.
The shadow did not move closer.
It only waited.
Waiting for the truth.
Waiting for what was owed.
And until that happened,
no one in the Lankar mansion
would truly be alone again