The night pressed against the windows like a heavy curtain. The city outside had grown quiet, its usual chaos muted by a persistent drizzle. Inside the Mehra house, the air felt heavier than usual, as if the walls themselves had taken a deep, sorrowful breath and refused to exhale.
It had been three days since Rajiv Mehra's accident.
The house bore the weight of his absence — the shoes by the door that no one dared move, the chair at the dining table left untouched, the faint trace of his cologne still clinging to his jacket. Every corner whispered of him, and yet, he was nowhere to be found. Or so they thought.
Anvi sat curled up on the living room couch, her fingers clutching a piece of ribbon — the same ribbon that had once adorned the gift her father had bought for her. Her eighth birthday had come and gone like a cruel joke: balloons now deflated and littering the floor, a half-eaten cake in the fridge that no one had the heart to finish.
Her mother, Meera, dozed in the armchair beside her, exhaustion etched into every line of her face. The clock on the wall read 1:07 a.m.
Then, it began.
A sound, faint at first — a broken melody, like a lullaby remembered wrong. It floated down the hallway, weaving between the shadows. Anvi sat upright, her heart pounding.
"Papa?" she whispered, her voice barely more than breath.
Meera stirred, rubbing her eyes. "What is it, Anvi?"
"Listen!" the little girl said, clutching her soft toy tighter. "It's him! It's Papa's song!"
Meera blinked into the darkness. The sound had stopped. Only the rain tapping on the window remained. "It's just the wind, beta. Come to bed."
But Anvi wasn't convinced. That melody — she remembered it from the music box her father had promised her. The very one he had died trying to bring home.
At the far end of the hallway, unseen by the living, Rajiv watched them.
For three nights he had wandered this house, a silent, weightless figure tethered to the world he had left. At first, he thought he was dreaming. Then, he realized dreams didn't ache like this. Death had taken his breath, his heartbeat, his warmth — but not his love. That remained, heavy as ever, pulling him back to his family.
Tonight, for the first time, he had dared to touch the music box. It had sat on the mantelpiece, cracked and still, ever since the neighbors brought it home from the accident site. When his fingers brushed its surface, the melody had stuttered to life for a few precious seconds.
He hadn't meant to frighten Anvi.
He just wanted her to know: I am still here.
Anvi slipped off the couch. Her small feet made no sound as she padded down the hallway, following the ghost of a tune.
The corridor stretched ahead, dimly lit by the flickering nightlight near the kitchen. Shadows moved where there were none. The air was cold enough to raise goosebumps on her arms.
"Papa?" she called softly.
A picture frame on the wall tilted slightly, as though something had brushed past it.
Before she could step closer, Meera caught up and scooped her into her arms. "Enough, Anvi. You're scaring yourself."
"But I heard him! He was right here," the girl insisted, her wide eyes glistening.
Meera kissed her hair, trying to steady her own trembling heart. "Papa is in heaven now, sweetheart. He can't come back."
Anvi buried her face in her mother's shoulder. "What if he wants to?" she whispered.
Meera had no answer. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she carried the child back to bed.
That night, the house refused to rest.
The photo frame on the bedside table — Rajiv holding Anvi on her fifth birthday — shivered as if stirred by a breath. The curtains swayed though the windows were shut. The faint, unmistakable scent of wet lilies — Rajiv's favorite flowers — drifted through the room.
Meera's eyes snapped open. For a moment, in the half-light, she swore she saw a figure standing at the foot of her bed. Tall. Familiar. Watching.
"Rajiv?" she whispered, before she could stop herself.
The figure was gone.
The door creaked slightly, opening by a few inches, then closed again.
Morning brought little comfort.
Neighbors trickled in with platitudes and fruit baskets. Mrs. D'Silva, the woman from next door, leaned close over a cup of tea. "Children sense these things more, you know," she murmured. "Sometimes their spirits… linger."
Meera shook her head firmly. "Please, don't. She's already not sleeping well."
But her mind betrayed her resolve. She remembered the creaking door, the lilies' scent. And that half-formed figure.
Rajiv, meanwhile, was beginning to understand his new existence.
The first two nights had been confusion — floating in and out of walls, unable to speak, unable to touch. But with each passing hour, the veil seemed to thin. He could move with purpose now. Sometimes, he could shift objects — a book, a curtain, the edge of a blanket.
He had no reflection in the mirror during the day, but at night, faint outlines emerged — pale skin, hollow eyes, a shadow of the man he had been.
It wasn't anger that anchored him here.
It was longing.
Longing to see his daughter smile again.
Longing to find the driver who had taken everything from them.
Longing for a goodbye that fate had stolen.
That evening, Anvi played in her room with her soft toys. Meera sat at her desk, going through bills she didn't remember stacking. The rain started again, tapping against the windowpane like impatient fingers.
The lights flickered.
Anvi looked up. "Mama…?"
Meera opened her mouth to reassure her — and then froze.
The music box.
It sat on the shelf, untouched since the day of the accident. And now, it turned slightly. The broken carousel inside spun once, twice, and a single haunting note rang out before falling silent.
Meera dropped the pen. Her eyes darted to her daughter, whose lips were curved in a trembling smile.
"See?" Anvi whispered. "He is here."
Later that night, as sleep claimed the child, Rajiv stood by her bed.
He watched the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. Her small hand lay open on the pillow. For the first time, he tried again — slowly, with focus — to touch her blanket.
This time, it moved.
Just a little. Enough to pull it closer to her chin.
Anvi stirred. Her eyes half-opened, and for a heartbeat, he thought she saw him.
Her lips curled faintly. "Papa," she mumbled in her sleep.
Rajiv felt something inside him — something like a heartbeat that was no longer there — tighten painfully.
"I'm here," he whispered, though no living ear could hear him. "I'll always be here."
The haunting began subtly in the days that followed.
A door that closed on its own when the wind was still. A picture frame turned toward the bed. The faint sound of someone pacing the hallway when everyone was asleep.
The neighbors whispered. Mrs. D'Silva lit incense at her door. The milkman avoided looking at the windows.
And in the quiet hours before dawn, when the rain stopped and the world held its breath, Anvi would wake and hear it again.
A voice, soft as mist.
Calling her name.
"Anvi…"