The letter arrived on a night when the world felt strangely silent.
Aranya noticed it the moment he stepped out of the elevator onto his apartment floor. The corridor lights flickered faintly above him, casting uneven shadows across the walls. At first, he thought someone had dropped a piece of trash near his door.
But as he walked closer, his steps slowed.
It wasn't trash.
It was an envelope.
Old. Thick paper. Slightly burned at the edges, as if it had survived a fire. A deep crimson wax seal pressed firmly in the center.
And somehow… it looked out of place.
As though it didn't belong to this time.
Aranya frowned. He was certain it hadn't been there when he left for work that morning.
He bent down and picked it up.
The envelope was warm.
Not just room temperature — warm, like it had been held in someone's hands moments ago.
A chill crawled up his spine.
His name was written across the front in elegant handwriting.
Aranya Sen
The moment he saw the handwriting, his heart skipped.
Because he recognized it instantly.
His fingers tightened around the envelope.
"No…" he whispered.
It couldn't be.
The handwriting belonged to someone who had been dead for three years.
Neela.
He stood frozen outside his apartment door for nearly a minute, staring at the name as if it might change.
It didn't.
The hallway felt colder.
Quieter.
As though the building itself was holding its breath.
Finally, he unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The familiar scent of his apartment — coffee, books, and faint detergent — should have comforted him. Instead, it felt distant, unreal.
He placed the envelope on the table.
For several seconds, he just stared at it.
Memories stirred beneath the surface of his mind — memories he had spent years trying not to think about.
Rain hitting broken windows.
Neela laughing.
Neela screaming.
Blood.
He shut his eyes tightly.
"Get a grip," he muttered to himself.
There had to be a logical explanation.
Someone was playing a prank.
Maybe an old friend.
Maybe someone who knew about Neela.
Maybe—
His thoughts stopped.
Because deep inside, a part of him already knew.
This wasn't a prank.
He broke the wax seal.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
The handwriting was the same.
Elegant. Familiar. Impossible.
You will understand everything when you remember.
Go back to the old house.
— Neela
The room seemed to tilt slightly.
The old house.
His breathing grew shallow.
He hadn't heard those words spoken aloud in years.
Hadn't gone near that place since that night.
Since the accident.
Since Neela died.
At least… that's what everyone believed.
Aranya sank into a chair.
His mind raced.
How could someone replicate her handwriting so perfectly?
Why mention the house?
Why now?
And the biggest question of all—
Why did this feel real?
A faint sound broke the silence.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
He looked toward the window.
A branch from the tree outside brushed lightly against the glass in the wind.
Relief washed through him.
"Just nerves," he said under his breath.
But when he looked back at the letter…
The ink seemed darker.
As if it had been written moments ago.
Sleep didn't come easily that night.
Every time he closed his eyes, memories pushed forward.
Fragments.
Incomplete.
He remembered going to the abandoned mansion with Neela for his photography project.
He remembered the rain.
He remembered arguing.
But after that…
Everything blurred.
Police reports had called it an accident.
Neela slipped and hit her head.
Case closed.
He had accepted that explanation.
Forced himself to accept it.
Because the alternative was too frightening.
At 2:17 AM, Aranya woke suddenly.
His heart was pounding.
For a moment, he didn't know why.
Then he heard it.
A sound from his living room.
Soft.
Like paper moving.
He sat up slowly.
The apartment was dark except for faint streetlight leaking through the curtains.
The sound came again.
A whispering rustle.
He swung his legs off the bed and walked toward the living room.
The letter lay on the table exactly where he left it.
But something was different.
There was another envelope beside it.
His stomach dropped.
He hadn't heard the door open.
Hadn't heard footsteps.
Yet there it was.
Another envelope.
Same burned edges.
Same wax seal.
Same handwriting.
His hands trembled as he picked it up.
This time, the message on the front read:
You're still running.
A cold wave spread through his body.
Slowly, he opened it.
Inside—
I'm waiting.
— Neela
The lights flickered.
For a split second, he thought he saw movement in the corner of the room.
A shadow shifting.
He turned sharply.
Nothing was there.
But the air felt heavier.
Charged.
And then—
He heard it.
A whisper.
So faint he almost convinced himself he imagined it.
"Aranya…"
His blood turned to ice.
Because the voice sounded exactly like hers.
He didn't sleep again that night.
By morning, exhaustion hung over him like fog.
But one thought kept repeating in his mind.
The old house.
By evening, he knew he wouldn't be able to ignore it.
Something — or someone — wanted him to go back.
And deep down…
He knew he would.