The house had grown quieter since Meera's visit to the priest, but silence did not mean peace. It was a fragile quietness, the kind that felt stretched too thin, as if one wrong breath could tear it apart. Everyone in the family had begun to notice the difference in Rajiv's presence.
At first, there were moments of startling tenderness.
One night, when little Aarav had woken crying from a nightmare, Meera rushed to his side. Before she could reach him, she found the boy clutching his blanket, whispering softly, "Papa's here. He said don't be scared."
Meera froze in the doorway. Aarav's wide, teary eyes were fixed on the dark corner of the room, where the moonlight failed to reach. The boy was calmer now, his tiny body relaxing as though unseen arms cradled him.
"Papa said he loves me," Aarav murmured, drifting back to sleep.
Meera's heart ached. She wanted to believe it was nothing more than a dream, but a faint smell of Rajiv's cologne lingered in the air, a scent she hadn't taken out from the wardrobe in months.
Days passed, and more such gestures revealed themselves. Meera would wake to find her saree neatly folded at the foot of the bed—just as Rajiv used to do when he wanted to tease her about being careless. Once, she discovered her tea already brewed, steam curling in the cup as if waiting for her. No one else in the house admitted to preparing it.
It was love, yes—but love from the grave.
Yet, as the priest had warned, love from the other side never came without shadows.
It began with small bursts of temper.
One evening, Priya accidentally dropped a framed photograph of Rajiv while dusting the shelf. The glass cracked. Almost instantly, the lights flickered violently, and the curtains blew inward though the windows were shut tight. A vase toppled, shattering across the floor.
Priya screamed, clutching her ears as a low growl filled the room.
"Forgive me!" she cried, trembling. "I didn't mean it!"
And just like that, everything stilled. The lights steadied. The air softened.
But when Meera rushed in, she saw Priya's cheek reddened with the mark of a slap—though no hand had touched her.
That night, the family gathered in the living room, voices hushed but heavy with fear.
"This cannot go on," Priya said, her voice quivering. "It's not just love anymore. It's anger. It's punishment."
"He doesn't mean to hurt us," Meera insisted, though her own hands trembled. "He loved us. He… he still does."
"Didi," whispered Priya, "sometimes love changes when it refuses to let go. The priest told you—spirits that linger become restless."
Meera pressed her palms together, fighting the sting of tears. She remembered the priest's words clearly: If you keep him close, his warmth will one day burn you.
But still, Meera tried to believe. She told herself Rajiv's outbursts were accidents, fleeting storms in a sea of devotion.
Until the night of the thunderstorm.
The rain beat hard against the windows, the wind howled like a wounded animal, and the family sat together, trying to distract themselves with conversation. Aarav was curled in his grandmother's lap when suddenly the power went out, plunging them into darkness.
In that silence, a voice rose above the storm—deep, familiar, unmistakable.
"Meera."
Her breath caught. "Rajiv?"
"Yes," the voice said, almost tender. "I am here."
The family sat frozen. Aarav reached out into the dark, smiling faintly. But then the voice changed—low, harsh, almost accusing.
"Why are you afraid of me?"
The air grew heavier. The wind outside seemed to batter against the walls with fury. The chandelier overhead rattled violently, as though ready to crash.
"I stayed," the voice thundered, "for you. For all of you. And now you doubt me?"
The walls groaned, picture frames clattering to the floor. Meera's mother-in-law clutched Aarav tightly, chanting prayers under her breath.
"Stop this, Rajiv!" Meera cried, tears streaming. "Please, you're scaring them!"
"I gave you love," the spirit roared, "and this is what I receive?"
The chandelier finally gave way, crashing inches away from where Priya sat. Shards of crystal scattered across the floor.
Everyone screamed.
And then, just as suddenly, silence.
The storm outside calmed. The air lightened. The faint smell of cologne lingered once again, but this time it was sharp, suffocating.
That night, no one slept.
Meera sat by the window, staring out at the wet, glistening street, her thoughts a whirlwind of pain and fear. Rajiv had always been her anchor—gentle, loving, steady. But the spirit in their home was changing. It was him, yet not him.
She remembered the priest's final warning before she left his home: If love binds him, love must also release him. Otherwise, his shadow will grow larger than his light.
Meera pressed her hands together. Could she really let him go? Could she face life without even his ghost to cling to?
The next morning, the family sat down for a decision.
"We cannot live like this," Priya said firmly. "We must confront him. Perform the rituals, send him away."
"No," Meera said sharply, shaking her head. "You don't understand. If we drive him away, it will be as if he never existed. I can't—" Her voice broke. "I can't lose him again."
"You already are," Priya whispered. "Piece by piece. Every day he becomes less your Rajiv, more… something else."
The grandmother looked up with weary eyes. "Child, love for the dead is not love—it is a chain. And chains weigh down the living."
Meera looked at Aarav, who sat quietly, his little hands clutching the toy car Rajiv had once bought him. The boy's innocence cut her deeper than any ghostly wound. If Rajiv's spirit lashed out again, what if Aarav was the one caught in his fury?
Her heart throbbed painfully. She was being torn apart between the love of a wife and the duty of a mother.
That evening, Meera entered Rajiv's study—now untouched, a shrine of memories. The faint light of dusk filtered in, making the dust motes dance like restless spirits. She sat at his old desk and pulled out his diary, its pages worn and fragile.
Her eyes blurred as she read his words, scrawled months before his death: "If anything ever happens to me, I want Meera and Aarav to live free. Promise me they won't waste their lives in sorrow. Love should protect, not imprison."
Meera's tears fell onto the page. She pressed her forehead to the diary, whispering, "Rajiv, if this is truly you, if you still love us… show me. Show me the way."
And for the first time, there was no answer.
Only silence.
The silence stretched over the next days, and it felt heavier than the fury had been. No more folded sarees. No more whispered comforts. No smell of cologne. The house felt colder, emptier.
But then came the dream.
Meera saw Rajiv standing in the hallway, his face half in shadow. He smiled faintly, but his eyes flickered between warmth and rage.
"You have to choose," he said. "Keep me, or free me. But know this—every day I stay, I grow less yours. Soon I won't remember love. Only anger."
She reached out to him, but he stepped back, vanishing into darkness.
Meera woke up screaming, her hands clutching the air where his face had been.
The family could no longer avoid the truth.
The spirit was at a crossroads—and so were they. Rajiv's love was still there, but it was twisted by fury, by longing, by the unnatural pull of the living world. If they did nothing, they risked losing him to darkness forever.
And so, with heavy hearts, they prepared. The priest would be called. The rituals would begin.
But deep inside, Meera knew—the hardest part would not be sending Rajiv away.
It would be deciding whether she truly wanted to.