Meera couldn’t take her eyes off the old photograph. Her grandfather stood beside an unknown woman, but behind them—barely noticeable—was a tall, blurred silhouette. No face. No features. Just a dark outline.
She turned to ask Daadi about it, but the old woman was already walking away.
“Daadi!” Meera called out.
No response.
Only the faint crackle of the diya’s flame echoed in the silence.
The Whispering Flames
That night, everyone in the haveli slept early after the celebrations. But Meera couldn’t rest. The ancient diya was still burning in her room, though she hadn’t brought it there.
She stared at its flame… and then she heard it—
A sound.
A soft whisper. Not from outside. From the diya itself.
Meera leaned closer.
It wasn’t words. It was… breathing.
Slow. Uneven. As if someone else was sharing her room.
Suddenly, the flame bent sharply in one direction—towards the corridor.
Almost like it was pointing.
Meera picked up the diya and followed the direction of its flame.
The Forbidden Wing
The flame guided her through a section of the haveli that hadn’t been opened in years—a long corridor with locked rooms and broken windows.
At the very end, she reached a large wooden door with an iron latch.
A symbol was carved into the wood—the same unknown pattern she’d seen on the brass diya.
Her hand hesitated, but before she could touch the latch…
The door opened on its own.
A cold gust of air hit her, yet the diya’s flame didn’t move.
Inside was a dusty room filled with old trunks, portraits, and a cracked mirror leaning against the wall.
As she stepped in, the door shut behind her.
Not slammed.
Just… clicked.
The Mirror and the Shadow
Meera held the diya up to the mirror.
For a moment, she saw only her own reflection.
Then… behind her reflection… a figure appeared.
Tall. Slender. Standing completely still.
Its face was turned away, but its shadow in the mirror was the exact same shape as the one in the photograph.
Meera spun around.
There was no one there.
But the mirror still showed the figure.
And then… it moved.
Not in the room.
In the mirror.
It slowly turned its head towards her reflection—its face finally coming into view.
There were no eyes. No mouth. Just a hollow, darkness-filled face.
And then…
It raised its hand and pointed behind her.
Meera turned.
There was an old black trunk she hadn’t noticed before. Something was carved on the lid—her grandfather’s initials.
The mirror figure went still.
The diya’s flame flickered violently.
And as Meera took a step toward the trunk… something shifted inside it.
Not an object.
Something alive.
Something waiting.