The dawn was wrong. The sky hung low over the villa, purple and bruised, as if the mountains themselves were holding their breath. Rajan sat on the lounge floor, knees drawn up, watching Rani from across the room. She was curled in a blanket, her bare feet pale against the wooden floor, her eyes fixed on nothing. "I'm fine… just cold," she'd said when he asked, but her voice carried a strange music, like a song he'd heard in a dream. Behind her, on the coffee table, lay an old photograph one of the guests had found in the library—a woman in a white dress, standing on the balcony of Room 13, her face a blur. The back read, in faded ink: She waits for love that never fades. Rajan's skin prickled. Something was watching them. And it wasn't Rani.The other guests were restless, their voices a low hum of fear. Twenty of them, half friends, half strangers, all trapped in this villa since the night's knocking had shattered their sleep. A landslide had blocked the only road out, discovered when Avi tried to call for help. The landline was dead, the router a melted husk, and the staff—still missing. "We should leave," a woman named Meera whispered, clutching her husband's arm. "This place… it's not right." But no one moved. The air felt thick, like it was pressing them into their seats.Rani stirred, pulling the blanket tighter. Her fingers brushed the photograph, and she froze, staring at it as if it might speak. "She's sad," she murmured, so softly Rajan barely heard. He leaned closer. "Who's sad, Rani?" Her head tilted, and for a moment, her eyes weren't her own—pale, almost gray, like moonlight on frost. "The lady," she said. "She's been waiting so long." Then she blinked, and her warm brown eyes returned, confused, as if she didn't know she'd spoken.Kabita, standing near the staircase, caught Rajan's gaze. Her lips parted, but she said nothing, her hands twisting the hem of her sweater. The guilt in her eyes was a blade, sharp and familiar. Rajan looked away. He couldn't deal with her now—not when Rani was slipping into something he didn't understand.By midday, the group had split into uneasy factions. Some searched the villa for clues, others huddled in the lounge, and Avi paced, barking orders no one followed. Rajan stayed close to Rani, who seemed both fragile and strangely vibrant. She laughed at odd moments, like when a guest dropped a glass, her giggle too bright for the tension. She touched things—the banister, a cracked mirror in the hallway—with a familiarity that made Rajan's stomach twist. It was as if she'd lived here before.In the library, Kabita found Rani writing in a notebook, her pen moving in sharp, elegant strokes unlike her usual scrawl. The page held a list of supplies—bread, milk, candles—but at the bottom, in a looping script, were words in an old dialect: My heart is bound to this place. Kabita's breath caught. "Rani, did you write this?" Rani looked up, startled, and nodded slowly. "I… think so." But her eyes darted to the mirror behind Kabita, and for a split second, her reflection smirked while Rani's face stayed still.Rajan noticed it too, later, when Rani joined him in the garden. She sat on the swing chair, her cream shawl slipping off one shoulder, and stared at him with an intensity that made his chest ache. "You have a heart that doesn't lie, Rajan," she said, her voice softer, older, like it carried the weight of years. "It's rare… so rare." She reached out, her fingers brushing his hand, and he flinched—not because her touch was cold, but because it felt too warm, too alive, like it wasn't just hers."Rani, what's going on?" he asked, his voice low. "You're not yourself." She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Maybe I'm more myself than ever." Her words hung in the air, heavy with meaning he couldn't grasp.Dusk fell, and the villa grew colder. The group gathered for dinner, but Rani excused herself, saying she needed air. Rajan followed her to the balcony of Room 13, where she stood staring into the mountains, her white sleeping dress billowing in the wind. The number 13 on the door gleamed faintly, though no one could recall it being there yesterday."Rani," he called softly, stepping closer. She didn't turn. "You love so purely, Rajan," she said, her voice a whisper, like leaves rustling over a grave. "Not like him… not like the one who left me." Rajan froze. Her eyes, when she turned, were gray again, glowing faintly in the twilight. "I was to be married here," she continued, her words spilling out like a confession. "He promised me forever, but he left me at the altar, in this very villa. I waited… I died waiting. And now, through her, I feel you. Your heart… it's the only truth I've found in a hundred years."Rajan's throat tightened. "You're not Rani," he said, stepping back. "Who are you?" The woman in Rani's body smiled sadly. "I am Lila. I am the one who knocks." Her hand reached for his, but he pulled away, his heart pounding. "Let her go," he pleaded. "Rani's not yours." Lila's eyes flickered, a mix of longing and pain. "If I leave her, I lose you too. Your love… it's the only thing keeping me here."Before Rajan could respond, Rani's body shuddered. Her eyes fluttered, brown again, and she gasped, clutching his arm. "Rajan?" she whispered, her voice her own, trembling. "What's happening to me?" She collapsed against him, her breath ragged, and he held her, his mind racing. Behind them, Kabita appeared in the doorway, her face pale. "I heard everything," she said, her voice shaking. "What is she?"Rajan didn't answer. He couldn't. Rani's warmth in his arms felt real, but the chill of Lila's words lingered.As the group tended to Rani in the lounge, a new sound broke the silence—not from a door, but from the walls. Three soft knocks, like a heartbeat, mournful and slow. The air grew colder, the lanterns dimming. Rajan glanced at Rani, now curled on a couch, her eyes half-open, murmuring, "She's still here… she's sorry." Kabita knelt beside her, her hand hovering, unsure. "We need to help her," she said, looking at Rajan. "Whatever this is, we can't let it take her."Rajan nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. On the balcony railing, he'd seen it—a small handprint, too delicate to be Rani's, etched in frost despite the warm night. And in his memory, the book he'd left at home whispered its warning: True love walks the edge of fear. But fear must first knock.He wondered, as the knocks echoed again, if love was the key—or the trap.
