He sat in halls not meant for him,
On woven mats, in twilight dim.
A voice would come, with riddles sweet
Of silver birds, and bloodless feet.
She smiled with eyes too old for youth,
And asked him softly, do you want the truth?
The room was still.
That kind of stillness you don't notice until it becomes too still. Like the moment after the power cuts, and you realize the humming of machines has been singing you to sleep your whole life.
Abhay sat cross-legged on a bamboo mat in the center of the room.
The house wasn't his. He wasn't even sure how he had ended up here.
The woman who had shown him the way was a toothless old villager who'd barely spoken. She had simply pointed toward the mud-walled home at the edge of the village, under the banyan tree that creaked without wind.
The door had been open.
No one was inside.
But something had pulled him in.
The interior was neat. Too neat. A brass pot shimmered beside a low wooden stove. An oil lamp flickered even though the sun had barely begun to set. Above the door, a thread of dried red chilies and lemons hung—withered, ancient, but untouched by insects.
He'd been sitting for twenty-two minutes now.
Not moving. Not thinking. Not afraid.
Not yet.
Then—
footsteps.
Not outside. Inside.
Soft. Barefoot. Light.
Abhay looked up just as a figure walked in through the kitchen curtain, barefoot and smiling, as if she'd simply returned from fetching flowers.
She couldn't have been more than twenty-two.
Braided hair. Anklets without bells. Eyes that smiled, but not too much.
She paused when she saw him.
"Oh," she said. "You came early."
Her voice was melodic—simple, innocent, with the kind of clarity usually reserved for lullabies or omens.
"I…" Abhay blinked. "You live here?"
She didn't answer right away.
Instead, she walked over to the lamp and adjusted its flame.
Then, softly:
"No one lives here. That's why you were allowed in."
Abhay straightened. "What?"
She smiled. Sat on the opposite mat. Her skirt rustled like dry leaves.
"You're wondering if I'm real," she said, looking at him with mischief. "Aren't you?"
"No, I just—"
"But it's okay," she interrupted sweetly. "Even I wonder that sometimes."
He didn't respond.
"What's your name?" she asked, tilting her head.
"Abhay."
"Abhay," she repeated thoughtfully, as if the name itself had dust on it. "How brave of your parents. But names are rarely true."
He stared. "What's yours?"
She smiled wider.
"That depends. What time is it?"
For a long moment, only the flame moved.
She finally answered:
"Some call me Meera. Others just call me the girl in the house that shouldn't have light."
Abhay felt a sudden weight in his chest. "Is that a riddle?"
"No," she said. "But I could speak only in riddles if that makes you feel safer."
"Why would I need to feel safe?"
She leaned closer across the mat.
"Because the ones who feel safe here are the ones who go missing first."
A gust of wind hit the house from outside.
Except the window was closed.
She stood up then, humming a tune as she poured water into a clay cup and placed it before him.
"Drink," she said.
Abhay hesitated.
She frowned, childlike. "Oh, you don't trust me. That's okay. Most of the dead didn't, either."
He stared at her.
"I meant the dear. Most of the dear ones didn't either," she corrected, though her eyes twitched the wrong way when she said it.
"You're playing games," he said, his voice low.
She nodded. "Everything is a game here."
"And the rules?"
"Shhh," she said, suddenly serious. "You mustn't ask the rules. Not out loud. Some of them are listening."
"Who?"
She pointed to the floor.
"The ones beneath the house. The ones who forgot what it means to be human."
Abhay stood up. "Okay. I should leave."
She didn't stop him. Just said, "You can go. But do look behind the neem tree before the sun forgets your name."
"What's behind it?"
"Nothing," she smiled. "Or everything, if you finally want to remember."
Abhay walked out of the house, heart beating strangely fast.
The village seemed the same.
Lamps glowing. Distant drums echoing from the temple.
But something had changed.
Not in the village.
In him.
"Innocence is a mask. And riddles are truths
told by those who've seen too much. The
girl with no bells was not warning him.
She was testing him. And somewhere
beneath the floor… something heard him speak its name."