The Sharma house felt different now. It wasn't the same home that had once overflowed with warmth, laughter, and the easy rhythm of family life. The walls seemed to breathe differently; the air seemed heavier, charged with a silent energy that Meera could not shake off. She knew Rajiv's spirit lingered—but was it really her husband she still felt around them, or something slowly changing into something else?
Morning Shadows
The morning light spilled weakly through the curtains, a pale reminder of the sun. Meera busied herself in the kitchen, boiling milk for tea. She tried to ignore the sensation that she wasn't alone in the room. Every time she turned toward the door, she expected to see Rajiv standing there as he used to, tie half-knotted, flashing her a smile before leaving for the office. But of course, the doorway was always empty.
In the living room, Anaya was humming. She sat on the carpet with her crayons, organizing them into neat rows. Red, blue, yellow—all carefully lined up as if she had been instructed.
Meera tilted her head. "What are you doing, beta?"
Anaya smiled up at her. "Papa said I should keep things tidy. He said it makes the house happy."
The milk boiled over, hissing loudly. Meera startled, quickly rushing back to the stove. But her hands trembled as she wiped the mess. Anaya had spoken so casually, as if her father's invisible instructions were as real as Meera's own words.
Conversations in Corners
Later that day, while folding laundry, Meera overheard her daughter's soft whispering. She crept quietly toward Anaya's room, heart thudding.
Anaya was sitting cross-legged on the floor, a drawing pad before her. "Papa, should I put the sun here?" she asked in a soft, conspiratorial voice. She paused, head tilted, listening. Then she laughed lightly. "Okay, I'll put it there!" Her crayon scribbled eagerly.
Meera's breath caught. She stepped into the room. "Anaya?"
The girl looked up with wide eyes and a smile. "Mama, Papa says my drawing is very pretty. He says he loves us."
For a moment, Meera's eyes burned with tears. She wanted desperately to believe Rajiv's love was still guiding them. But Pandit Devnath's words echoed in her mind: Spirits linger, and love twists into possession. The longer he stays, the harder it will be.
Strange Interventions
Over the next few days, Meera noticed how the little things in the house weren't little anymore. They were messages.
One evening she tried to switch off the television so Anaya would get ready for bed. The remote slipped suddenly from her grip, clattering to the ground. When she bent to pick it up, the TV switched on again—this time playing Anaya's favorite cartoon.
"Mama!" Anaya squealed, delighted. "Papa wants me to watch a little longer!"
Another night, Meera insisted that Anaya finish her vegetables. The girl pouted, refusing. As Meera scolded, the lights above them flickered harshly, buzzing angrily until she gave in. When she carried the plate away, the flickering stopped instantly.
Meera stood frozen in the dim kitchen, heart pounding. This wasn't her imagination. Rajiv was intervening—deciding, controlling.
The Whisper of Comfort
That night, after Anaya had drifted to sleep, Meera sat alone in the living room, clutching the edge of the sofa. Her voice broke into the silence.
"Rajiv… if it's really you, please listen. I love you. We both love you. But this—this isn't how it's supposed to be. Please don't frighten us."
The air turned cold. The curtains stirred without wind.
Then she heard it—soft, unmistakable, right beside her ear.
"I will never leave. I promised I'd protect you both."
The words were gentle, filled with love. Yet something about them carried the weight of refusal, of a chain tightening.
Meera's eyes filled with tears. She whispered, "But you're not supposed to be here. You're supposed to rest."
Silence. And then, almost like a warning:
"Don't send me away."
Anaya's Transformation
At school, Anaya began to change. Teachers told Meera her daughter was distracted, often talking to herself. She no longer played with friends at recess. Instead, she'd sit alone, smiling at nothing, lips moving as though in conversation.
When they came home, she would run straight to her room. "Papa's waiting for me," she would say happily.
At bedtime, she started leaving a clear space on her bed. "This is where Papa sits," she explained earnestly. "He tells me stories."
Meera forced a smile each time but lay awake at night, gripped by fear. The bond between father and daughter was deepening—not through life, but through death.
The Mirror's Secret
One evening, Meera went into her room to find the gift box Rajiv had bought for Anaya before his death lying open on her dresser. The doll inside was no longer tucked neatly in the box but propped upright against the mirror, its glass eyes catching the dim glow of the lamp.
Her breath hitched. She remembered locking the box away in the cupboard.
"Rajiv?" she whispered.
For an instant, the mirror rippled faintly, and she thought she saw him—his reflection behind her, blurred and hollow-eyed. Then it was gone.
The doll toppled over slowly, as if nudged by unseen hands.
Sleepless Nights
Meera's sleep grew thinner, broken by faint footsteps in the hall, by whispers that might have been wind or might have been Rajiv. She grew pale, exhausted, her nerves fraying under the constant sense of being watched.
But Anaya thrived. She seemed brighter at home, more cheerful, more secure. She told Meera things "Papa" said: where to put her toys, how to arrange her drawings, what to say when she felt lonely.
Every night ended with the same words: "Papa says don't be sad. He's taking care of everything."
Meera's chest tightened each time. The priest's warning weighed against her daughter's innocent joy.
A Dangerous Comfort
One night, Meera tried to reason aloud again. "Rajiv, I know you want to protect us. But Anaya needs to grow, to live. Please… don't hold her back."
The temperature dropped suddenly. The windows rattled in their frames.
The same voice whispered, firmer this time:
"She's mine to protect. I won't let anyone else take her."
Meera's heart pounded. It was love, yes—but also possession.
She thought of Anaya's small body, her trusting eyes, her innocent faith. And she realized something terrifying: to Rajiv's spirit, Anaya wasn't just his daughter anymore. She was his anchor, his reason to stay.
The Mother's Resolve
The next morning, Meera sat with a cup of tea she could barely drink. She stared at the suitcase where Rajiv's clothes were still neatly folded. She had left them untouched, unwilling to erase him.
Now she wondered if keeping his belongings was what tethered him here. His shirts still carried the faint scent of his cologne. His shoes still stood by the door, waiting for feet that would never return.
Was it mercy to hold on, or cruelty?
Tears streamed down her face. She knew she couldn't decide yet. But the time was coming when she would have to.
Closing Scene
That night, as she tucked Anaya in, her daughter whispered, "Mama, Papa says we'll never be alone again. Isn't that nice?"
Meera kissed her forehead and smoothed her hair. "Yes, beta," she said softly. But her hands trembled as she switched off the lamp.
She closed the door and leaned against it, heart hammering. She knew the truth now: Rajiv wasn't leaving. And the deeper Anaya's bond with him grew, the harder it would be to let him go.
And somewhere in the silence, she thought she heard it again—Rajiv's whisper, tender but unyielding:
"We're a family forever. Nothing will take me away."
Meera's tears spilled freely. She wanted to believe it was love. But in the pit of her stomach, she feared it was the beginning of something far darker.