The air turned cold—bone-deep cold—the moment the child's soft voice echoed, "Found me."
No one moved.
Not even the wind.
Khushi clutched Rutuja's arm. Akshara took a step back, nearly stumbling.
Prajwal was the only one who stayed still, her eyes never leaving the child.
"Are you… Ophelia?" she asked gently.
The girl tilted her head. Her eyes were pale, almost silver, and yet so hollow.
"You found my name. But names don't save people."
She took a step forward.
"I waited. I cried. No one came."
Her voice grew colder, sharper.
"She threw me down here… and forgot me."
A rumble echoed from the bottom of the well. The ground beneath them trembled.
Swara shone her flashlight directly into the well—but the light couldn't touch the bottom. A strange, swirling darkness seemed to absorb it.
"We need to leave," whispered Apurva, gripping Swarali's hand.
"No," Prajwal said, her voice steady. "We need to listen."
The girl—Ophelia—looked straight at her. "You hear it, don't you?"
Prajwal nodded.
"The whispers," Ophelia said. "They're louder at night."
The wind picked up, carrying voices—soft, jumbled, whispering incoherent things. The trees bent unnaturally, groaning like they were alive.
Suddenly, a whisper cut through them all, loud and clear:
"Come down and see."
Srushti stepped back, her voice panicked. "Nope. No way. This is not what I signed up for."
Anushka, for once, said nothing. She was staring at Ophelia like she'd seen something no one else had.
Then something happened.
The well began to glow.
Not with light—but a mist, rising slowly like smoke, thick and silvery. Within the mist, shadows moved—reaching hands, drifting faces.
Swara took out her notebook and quickly flipped to the page with Eleanor's story. "Eleanor was said to have betrayed someone… maybe it wasn't her lover. Maybe it was Ophelia."
"But she was her daughter," said Akshada.
Swara shook her head. "That's what people assumed. But what if… she wasn't? What if Eleanor adopted her? Or stole her?"
A chilling laugh cut through the forest. Ophelia's head dropped, hair covering her face again. "She said I was her little doll. But dolls are thrown away."
Suddenly, from behind the well, another figure emerged.
A woman.
Tall. Pale. Dressed in black lace and old velvet.
Eleanor Winters.
She looked as haunting as before—but not angry. Not vengeful.
"Ophelia," she whispered. "You must let go."
The child backed away. "You left me."
"I didn't know," Eleanor said softly. "They told me you died. I came back, but you were gone."
Tears ran down Ophelia's ghostly cheeks—translucent like mist.
"I waited."
The two ghosts faced each other now, shadows swirling around them.
The girls stood in a circle, holding hands instinctively as the wind grew wilder. Leaves whipped around. The earth shook.
Prajwal closed her eyes. "Let them speak. Let the truth be known."
A beam of moonlight broke through the clouds, shining directly into the well.
Suddenly—silence.
The whispers stopped.
The mist faded.
And both Eleanor and Ophelia were gone.
Not vanished in fear… but faded, like fog under the morning sun.
---
Back at the hotel that night, the girls didn't say much.
But they felt it.
The air was lighter. The hotel no longer felt haunted. The walls didn't creak. The lights didn't flicker.
Peace had returned.
And yet…
In Prajwal's bag, her notebook flipped on its own.
A new sentence had appeared.
"One truth sets you free. But one lie remains buried."
---