The house had stopped feeling like home.
It was no longer just the photographs tilting on their own or the faint music box melody in the night. The air itself seemed charged, as though the walls held their breath. Every corner of every room felt occupied — not by strangers, but by someone Meera once knew too well.
Rajiv.
At least, that's what her heart whispered. But was it still him? Or had grief twisted her senses into madness?
The Day of Broken Glass
It began on a Tuesday morning. Meera had just finished packing Anaya's tiffin when she heard the sharp crash of breaking glass. Her hands trembled as she rushed into the dining room.
The tall glass vase that had once been Rajiv's anniversary gift lay in shards on the floor. Water pooled around the flowers it had held, their petals wilting in sudden violence.
Anaya stood nearby, wide-eyed but calm.
"Papa did it," she said simply. "He was angry."
Meera's breath hitched. "Angry? At what?"
"He didn't like that you cried last night," the girl answered, as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world. "He said you should be strong."
Meera's knees nearly buckled. Her daughter's innocence, her certainty, was chilling. If Anaya truly believed Rajiv spoke to her, then either her imagination had blossomed too far… or something unspeakable was happening.
The Protective Storm
That evening, the weather turned violent without warning. Dark clouds swallowed the sky, and a sudden wind rattled the windows. Meera hurried to shut them, but the storm seemed to have a mind of its own.
Lightning flashed, illuminating the living room in stark white. For a fraction of a second, Meera saw a silhouette by the front door — tall, broad-shouldered, unmistakably Rajiv's. When the thunder rolled, the figure was gone.
Then came the knock.
Three hard, deliberate raps shook the door. Meera froze, heart in her throat. Who would come in such a storm?
Before she could approach, the door flung open on its own. The wind howled inside, scattering papers and toppling a chair. And in the threshold stood two men — strangers, soaked and reeking of alcohol.
"Lost, bhabhi?" one of them sneered, his eyes darting toward the faint glow of the house behind her.
Before Meera could react, the lights flickered violently, buzzing with fury. The air grew cold, and from nowhere came a growl — deep, inhuman, vibrating through the very walls.
The men staggered back, eyes wide. One clutched his chest. "What the hell was that?"
The growl grew louder, echoing through every corner of the house. A shadow swept across the ceiling, stretching, looming. The photographs on the wall rattled, and the music box in the drawer began to play, its tune warped and furious.
The intruders bolted, stumbling into the rain-soaked street, their curses swallowed by the storm.
Meera slammed the door shut, chest heaving.
"Papa chased them away," Anaya said softly, peeking from behind her. She smiled, unafraid. "He was protecting us."
But Meera could not smile. Her hands shook as she pressed them to her lips. Was this protection… or a warning?
The Fire in the Kitchen
Days passed. The storm had gone, but the unrest within the house only deepened.
One afternoon, while cooking, Meera left the stove unattended for a moment to answer a phone call. When she returned, flames licked at the edge of the pan, threatening to spread.
Panic surged through her. But before she could reach for water, the flame sputtered out on its own, as if smothered by an invisible hand.
The air smelled not of smoke, but of cologne — Rajiv's.
Meera staggered back, clutching her chest. The timing was too precise to ignore. He had saved them… again.
Yet the way the flames had died so suddenly, the way the room felt colder in their wake, filled her with unease. Protection, yes — but unnatural.
The Possession of Comfort
That night, Anaya refused to sleep in her own room. She climbed into Meera's bed, clutching her blanket.
"Papa says he wants to stay with us forever," the child whispered, her eyes wide in the dim glow of the night-lamp.
Meera stiffened. "He… he said that?"
Anaya nodded eagerly. "I can't hear him with my ears, Mama, but I feel him in my heart. He says he'll never leave us. Isn't that good?"
Meera forced a smile, but her stomach churned. Never leave. The words rang like chains in her mind.
When Anaya drifted to sleep, Meera lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The shadows above seemed to ripple, forming shapes that almost looked like hands reaching out.
A thought whispered inside her: What if Rajiv no longer knows the difference between protecting and controlling? Between love and possession?
The Night of the Mirror
It happened three nights later.
Meera woke to the sound of footsteps pacing the hallway. Careful, deliberate steps. She sat up, her heart thundering, and saw the faint glow of the bathroom light spilling under the door.
She rose, each step cautious, and pushed the door open.
The mirror above the sink was fogged, as though someone had just stepped out of a hot shower. But the glass was cold to her touch. Slowly, words began to form in the condensation, written by an unseen hand.
"I AM HERE."
Meera stumbled back, choking on a cry.
Then another line appeared, jagged and urgent:
"YOU ARE MINE."
Her scream tore through the night.
Anaya rushed in, rubbing her eyes. "Mama? What happened?"
Meera pulled her daughter close, shielding her eyes from the mirror. But when she looked back, the words had already vanished, leaving only her own reflection — pale, trembling, hollow-eyed.
The Breaking Point
By morning, Meera was resolved. The haunting was no longer gentle. It was no longer just protection. The message in the mirror chilled her to the bone.
She remembered Pandit Varun's warning: What begins with protection may end with possession.
The love she had once trusted was becoming a prison. And if she did not act soon, she feared she would lose not only herself but also her daughter to Rajiv's shadow.
Yet even as she steeled her resolve, the music box began to play again from its drawer — soft, mournful, almost pleading.
Meera sank to the floor, her hands covering her face.
"Rajiv," she whispered through her tears, "are you protecting us… or are you trying to keep us for yourself?"
The house gave no answer. Only the wind outside, and the soft, haunting lullaby that once had been a gift of love but now sounded like a dirge.