The Sharma house had always been full of light. Rajiv's laughter once rang through its halls, Anaya's giggles followed him like a shadow, and Meera's voice tied it all together into the warmth of a home. But in the weeks since Rajiv's accident, the house had begun to change. It wasn't just grief—it was something else.
The nights pressed in heavier, as though darkness seeped into the walls themselves. Doors creaked even when locked. Toys shifted from one room to another when no one touched them. Worst of all, little Anaya had started whispering in corners, smiling at something only she could see.
Meera had tried to dismiss it as imagination, as the way a child copes with loss. But the drawings Anaya brought to her told a darker story—sketches of a tall, looming figure standing beside her bed. Sometimes he was smiling, sometimes his eyes were hollow black circles. And always, above his head, hung a dark cloud.
By the time a full month had passed since the accident, Meera could no longer pretend. She wasn't just grieving her husband. She was living with him—or rather, with something he had become.
The Search for Answers
On a gray morning, after dropping Anaya at school, Meera walked with no destination in mind. Her body moved faster than her thoughts. She needed help—someone who could tell her what was happening, who could make sense of the impossible.
Her mother's words surfaced in her memory: When the world turns dark, go to the temple. Truth doesn't hide there.
The lanes grew narrower as she made her way to an old temple she hadn't visited in years. The structure was modest, bricks faded and moss creeping along the corners, but inside, the air pulsed with something heavy and sacred. Incense smoke curled toward the rafters where brass bells caught slivers of sunlight.
An elderly priest sat behind the altar, his eyes half-closed in meditation. His hair was silver, his shoulders stooped, but when his gaze lifted to hers, Meera felt as though he could see directly into her soul.
"Pandit Devnath?" her voice cracked.
He nodded, motioning for her to sit. "You've carried a heavy shadow with you," he said softly. "Tell me."
The words poured from her like water bursting through a dam—Rajiv's sudden death, the unopened gift box for their daughter, the toys that moved, the whisper of his presence, the strange ways in which he both protected and frightened them. She spoke until her throat burned, until silence was the only thing left.
For a long time, Devnath said nothing. His fingers glided over prayer beads, lips moving in silent chants. Then he sighed.
"Your husband has not left this world."
The air seemed to vanish from Meera's lungs. Even though she had suspected it, hearing the truth spoken aloud shook her to the core.
The Priest's Words
"Sudden deaths," Devnath continued, his voice slow and deliberate, "leave the soul restless. When love is strong, when duties remain unfinished, the spirit clings to the living. At first, it lingers gently—watching, listening. But the longer it stays…"
His eyes fixed on hers, sharp and unblinking. "It forgets what it means to be human. Love twists into possession. Protection turns to control. The spirit believes only it can keep its family safe—even if it must cage them to do so."
Meera's chest tightened. She remembered the night the window had slammed shut by itself, the evening the front door had refused to open, as though some unseen force was keeping her inside.
"But he's not harming us," she said, almost pleading. "He… he plays with Anaya. He protects us."
"For now," Devnath said, his voice low. "But what is protection without freedom? What is love if it demands fear? The spirit believes it is giving comfort. Yet it is binding you tighter and tighter, until you can no longer live."
Meera pressed her trembling hands together. "Then what am I to do? How do I tell my daughter her father has to go? How do I let him go myself?"
Devnath's expression softened. "The bond of love does not end with farewell, beti. To guide him forward is not betrayal—it is mercy. His soul cannot find peace while chained to this world. And if he stays too long…" He paused, then whispered, "…the man you loved will no longer be the one standing in your house."
The words struck her like blows. Rajiv—the warm, kind husband who had once kissed her forehead before leaving for work—was fading into something she could not recognize.
"You must decide," the priest said firmly. "Do you cling to him in fear of losing him, or do you release him, so he may finally rest?"
Meera's voice cracked. "And if I don't?"
Devnath's eyes darkened. "Then his love will rot into something darker. A spirit that cannot move on becomes a shadow of hunger—neither living nor gone. And once that happens… there is no return."
Home Again
Meera stumbled out of the temple, her mind in chaos. The streets blurred around her as she walked, her body heavy with dread. The priest's words circled her like vultures: protection turns to control… no return… guide him forward or lose him forever.
When she returned home, Anaya was on the living room floor with her crayons. "Mama, look!" she chirped.
On the paper was a picture of three stick figures—herself, her mother, and her father—holding hands. Above the father's head floated a dark, jagged cloud, but he was smiling.
"Papa says he'll never leave us," Anaya added, eyes bright with childish certainty.
Meera forced a smile, kissed her daughter's forehead, and excused herself before Anaya could see the tears forming. The priest's warning weighed against the innocence in her daughter's voice. How could she tell Anaya that the very presence she clung to might one day harm her?
The Shadow Deepens
That night, the atmosphere in the house thickened. The air was heavier, colder, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath.
As Meera tucked Anaya into bed, the girl whispered, "Papa's here, Mama. He said don't be afraid. He's watching us."
Meera's stomach twisted. "Where, beta?"
Anaya's tiny hand pointed to the corner of the room. Meera's eyes followed—and for just a fraction of a second, she thought she saw it too. A tall outline, shoulders stooped, standing still in the shadows.
Her breath caught in her throat. She quickly kissed her daughter, switched off the lamp, and left the room with shaking legs.
In her own bedroom, she tried to calm herself. But the gift Rajiv had bought—the doll meant for Anaya's birthday—sat on her dresser. She remembered locking it inside the cupboard. Now the box was open, the doll perched upright, its glass eyes reflecting the moonlight.
"Rajiv," she whispered into the emptiness. "If you're here, don't frighten us. Please."
The mirror above the dresser rippled faintly, and for the briefest moment, she saw his reflection—standing behind her, his face blurred, his eyes hollow.
The Whisper in the Dark
That night, as she lay in bed, Meera pressed her palms together in silent prayer. Sleep tugged at her, heavy and restless, until a faint warmth brushed against her ear.
"Don't send me away, Meera. I'm still here."
Her eyes flew open. The room was empty, but the faint scent of Rajiv's cologne lingered in the air.
Tears streamed down her face. For the first time, she realized the haunting wasn't just inside the house—it was inside her heart.
And now, she was caught between two agonizing choices: to cling to her husband's ghost, or to set him free and face life without him forever.