The rain had cleared by morning, but Meera could still feel the weight of the storm inside her. The night's memory clung to her like a second skin: the music box playing by itself, the whisper in the dark, and that fleeting image of Rajiv standing in the doorway.
She wanted to believe it was her mind, fractured by grief. Yet the locket sitting on the table said otherwise. She had not seen it since the police handed her Rajiv's belongings. She had tucked it away in a drawer, too painful to look at. How had it come here, gleaming in the storm's dim light?
Anaya, however, accepted it as simply as she breathed. "Papa gave it back," she said proudly, fastening the chain around her small neck. "Now he'll always be close."
Meera swallowed her words. She couldn't bring herself to shatter her daughter's fragile comfort. And yet, a coil of unease tightened in her chest.
The First Protection
It happened two days later.
Meera had left the front door slightly ajar while bringing in groceries. As she stacked the vegetables in the kitchen, she heard Anaya scream from the living room.
Heart in her throat, Meera ran to find her daughter crouched against the sofa, pointing at the doorway.
A stray dog had wandered in — mangy, its ribs poking through its skin, foam glistening at the corners of its mouth. It growled low, inching toward the child.
Before Meera could grab a stick or shout, the living room lights burst into a violent flicker. The air grew icy, the curtains whipping though no window was open. The dog whimpered, ears flattening, then yelped as if struck by something unseen. In a blur, it turned and bolted through the open door, tail between its legs.
Anaya blinked at her mother. "Papa scared it away."
Meera could only stare at the trembling lightbulbs, her breath ragged. Somewhere in the air lingered the faintest scent of Rajiv's cologne.
The Unseen Guardian
From that day forward, the house began to shift. Meera noticed things that didn't belong to the world of the living.
One evening, she nearly tripped over a broken step on the staircase — but before she fell, she felt something push gently against her shoulder, steadying her. When she looked back, no one was there.
When Anaya cried in the night, toys she hadn't touched in years appeared on her bed — Rajiv's favorites to cheer her with.
And one morning, when Meera's gas stove failed to ignite properly and a dangerous leak hissed into the kitchen, the knobs turned off by themselves before she even smelled the danger.
Every sign pointed to the same truth: someone was watching over them.
But Meera's unease deepened. Protection, yes — but by what? By who?
Whispers of Fear
The neighbors began to notice.
"Your curtains move at night," Mrs. Dutta from next door said uneasily one afternoon. "Even when there's no wind."
Another neighbor muttered about strange noises — humming, almost like a man's voice — drifting into the street when Meera swore she'd been asleep.
"Maybe it's… him," one whispered.
Meera forced a smile, but her palms grew damp. Rumors were seeds, and she knew how quickly they spread.
That night, she locked every door and window. But at 7:45 sharp, the lights flickered, and the front door creaked open as though someone had just come home.
Meera pressed her hands to her ears, whispering, "Leave us alone…"
But she knew — the footsteps on the floorboards belonged to Rajiv.
The Shadow at the Gate
One evening, as twilight fell, Meera heard voices outside. She peeked through the curtain and saw two men loitering near the gate — strangers, their eyes shifting toward the house.
Her stomach tightened. She knew the type: opportunists who preyed on widows, thinking them vulnerable.
As she reached for her phone, one of the men placed a hand on the gate latch.
The world around them seemed to shift. The porch light flared unnaturally bright, buzzing angrily. The gate rattled as if seized by invisible hands. Then came the sound — a guttural growl, low and inhuman, echoing from the shadows.
The men froze. Their faces paled. Without a word, they stumbled back into the street and ran until they vanished into the night.
Anaya clapped her hands in delight. "Papa scared the bad men!"
But Meera's heart pounded with dread. The growl had not sounded like Rajiv. It had sounded… darker.
A Daughter's Faith, A Mother's Fear
Anaya spoke to him freely now. She whispered into the air before bed: "Goodnight, Papa." She drew pictures of their family — Mama, herself, and a tall figure shaded in blue who hovered just above the ground.
Meera found one of the drawings tucked under her pillow: the three of them holding hands, except Papa's hand was faded, almost transparent.
Her heart broke at the sight. For Anaya, the ghost was comfort. For Meera, it was torment — a wound that refused to close.
She sat alone that night, staring at their wedding photograph. "Rajiv," she whispered into the dark, "if it's really you… why won't you let us heal?"
The silence that followed was heavier than any scream.
The Warning Dream
That night, Meera dreamt of the accident. She saw Rajiv stepping onto the road, gift bag in hand, his smile soft and tired. Then the blinding headlights came, but this time, in the dream, he turned to her.
"Protect Anaya," he whispered, his voice trembling. "Don't let them take her."
Meera jolted awake, sweat dripping down her face. She rushed to her daughter's room — only to find Anaya sleeping peacefully, the locket glinting on her chest.
On the windowpane, however, a single word was etched in condensation: SAFE.
The Fear of the Living
Days passed, and word of strange happenings reached even Rajiv's brother, who visited with concerned eyes. "Meera, you look exhausted. The house… it doesn't feel right."
"I'm managing," she said quickly.
He frowned. "Maybe come stay with us for a while. It isn't healthy for Anaya here."
But Anaya protested, clutching her locket. "No! Papa is here. I won't leave him."
Her uncle's face darkened with pity, but Meera said nothing. How could she explain that leaving the house felt impossible — as though something bound them here?
The Night of the Intruder
The breaking point came one stormy night, when Meera woke to the unmistakable sound of glass shattering downstairs. Her heart leapt. Someone was inside.
She crept down, clutching a kitchen knife, the thunder masking her shaky breaths.
A man — masked, hunched — rifled through the living room drawers.
Before Meera could step forward, the air thickened. The lights flickered violently. The intruder froze, his head snapping up.
The photograph of Rajiv and Anaya crashed to the floor. The curtains whipped, the sofa shook, and from the shadows rose a figure — tall, indistinct, but burning with fury.
The man screamed, stumbling back. The front door flung open on its own, and a violent gust hurled him outside. He ran into the storm, never looking back.
Meera dropped the knife, her knees buckling. In the silence that followed, she whispered into the dark: "Rajiv… was that you?"
A faint warmth brushed her cheek.
For the first time, she whispered back, "Thank you."
But Fear Remains
Though the intruder was gone, Meera's dread deepened. She had seen the figure more clearly than ever — and though she longed to believe it was Rajiv, there had been something unsettling in its fury, something not entirely human.
Anaya slept peacefully, safe in her father's unseen arms. But Meera lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
What happens when love that cannot let go turns into something darker?
The house was safe. They were protected.
But at what cost?