"A village does not speak.
It chooses. And when it chooses,
the chosen can never walk away unmarked."
The night inside the haveli was restless.
Wind slipped through broken beams, carrying whispers that never quite became words. The group huddled close to the single lantern that burned low in the center of the room.
No one laughed. No one argued about who snored too loudly. The silence was unnatural—like the air itself was listening.
Priya sat cross-legged near the lantern, her camera strap wound tight around her wrist as if she expected someone to snatch it away. Every few minutes, her eyes darted to Diya—not hostile, not trusting, but measuring.
Rohit finally broke the quiet. His voice sounded too loud in the hollow space.
"We need rules. We can't just wander like tourists anymore. This place—it's not a prank, it's not a story. It's playing with us."
"Playing with her," Meghna muttered, her gaze slicing toward Diya.
Diya stiffened, her hand unconsciously moving to the silver locket around her neck. "Stop looking at me like I asked for this. I don't know why my name's still there. I don't know why it's carved on walls."
"Maybe you don't," Kabir said carefully, his voice calmer than the rest, "but maybe the village does."
The words settled like dust. Heavy. Unshakable.
The Old Orchard
By dawn, after restless half-sleep, they agreed to explore beyond the main street. The temple and schoolhouse had already left their mark. Abhay suggested the orchard near the eastern boundary. No one argued—half out of exhaustion, half because they didn't want to admit they were afraid of saying no.
The walk was longer than it should have been. Paths curved back on themselves, lanes ended at walls that hadn't been there seconds before. The village felt like it was rearranging behind them.
When they reached the orchard, the air turned dry.
The trees were wrong.
Branches twisted into shapes that looked like hands, fingers, even twisted spines. No leaves, no fruit. Just husks dangling, cracked and hollow, like dried hearts left to rot.
The ground beneath was worse. It wasn't just soil—it was layered with broken bangles, rusted lockets, beads, torn fabric, even children's toys. As if people had emptied their pockets into the earth and never come back to claim them.
Saanvi crouched, her face pale. "These are… personal things. Offerings. Or… sacrifices."
Yashpal bent down and picked up an anklet. It snapped in his hand like brittle bone. He dropped it instantly.
Then Priya gasped.
At the base of one of the central trees, carved deep into its bark, was a name.
Diya.
Not once. Not twice.
But dozens of times. Layered over and over until the bark itself seemed made of her name.
"Holy shit," Rohit whispered. "What the hell—"
Meghna's voice shook, but her words were sharp. "This isn't random. This isn't us imagining. The village wants her."
Diya's breath hitched. She stepped back, shaking her head. "No. No, I've never even been here. How could—"
"Trees don't just write names for fun," Priya said quietly, her eyes locked on Diya's trembling hands.
Abhay's voice cut in, sharper than usual. "Stop."
They all turned. Abhay rarely spoke with force, but now his tone was blade-thin.
"We don't know enough. We have fragments, not truth. Jumping to blame her helps no one."
For a moment, silence. Even the wind seemed to halt.
Diya looked at him, startled—and strangely grateful.
The Shattered Bell
At the orchard's edge, half-hidden by tall grass, stood a shrine. Its stone was cracked, blackened with moss. Above it hung a bell—split perfectly in half.
On the altar below was an inscription, nearly erased by time:
"The one remembered must carry the silence of the rest."
Rohit swallowed hard. "What the hell does that mean?"
Meghna's gaze slid back to Diya. "I think we know exactly what it means."
"No," Abhay snapped again, more forcefully this time. "We don't know. We're reading riddles with tired minds. Don't make her your scapegoat."
But the look in Meghna's eyes didn't fade. And when Saanvi tugged her arm to walk away, she went reluctantly.
The Village Watches
That night, the orchard lingered in their thoughts like a bad taste.
Kabir checked his camera, scrolling through the day's photos. His frown deepened with each swipe.
The images of the orchard trees were blurred beyond recognition. Branches stretched wrong, shadows swallowed the frames. Faces of the group twisted into shapes he didn't remember capturing.
Except one photo.
That one was crystal clear.
The carvings of Diya's name on the bark stood sharp, cleaner than any detail in the image.
It was almost as if the village itself wanted her name to be remembered.
Priya rubbed her temples, exhaustion written in the lines of her face. "I don't like this. It's like everything here is telling us Diya is the—"
"Don't say it," Diya whispered, her voice breaking.
The shutters of the haveli banged open without warning. Wind howled inside, tearing through pages and tossing bags to the floor. The lantern guttered, shadows crawling up the walls.
Kabir's notebook flung itself open. Ink bled into words that hadn't been there seconds before:
The village remembers what it has claimed.
It will not let go.
The lantern blew out.
And for a fraction of a second, in the absolute dark, every one of them saw her—
The bent woman. Green sari. Mole under her left eye. Standing in the corner, silent, watching.
When the flame sputtered back, the corner was empty.
The Night Fractures
No one spoke for a long time after that.
Rohit whispered finally, his voice hoarse, "I don't think this place ever abandoned anyone. I think it keeps them."
Priya's hands tightened around her camera. Yashpal muttered a curse. Saanvi buried her face in her knees.
And Diya sat frozen, her locket clutched so hard it cut into her palm, her eyes wide as though she was listening to something only she could hear.
Abhay stared at the darkened corner where the old woman had stood. His face betrayed nothing—but inside, his mind tightened around a single thought:
This village isn't choosing at random. It's choosing her.
But why?
And for what end?
"To be remembered is not to be saved.
It is only to be kept."