"Two girls wandered where gods do sleep,
With silver bells and secrets deep.
One heard a song no ears should know,
The other found eyes where no eyes should grow.
Beware the prayers not meant for men,
For gods once buried… might rise again."
The temple loomed in silence not a holy silence, but a waiting one, like a breath held too long.
Aarti adjusted her shawl and glanced at Mitali, who was still giggling over some half-remembered joke. But her laughter didn't belong here it sounded wrong, like a tune played backwards.
"This is where they said the old statue was kept?" Mitali asked, twirling her phone torch lazily toward the locked sanctum.
"Yeah," Aarti replied, eyes narrowed. "The villagers said the idol isn't there anymore. That the 'Devi left on her own.'"
"Left? Statues don't leave, babes," Mitali scoffed.
"She walked out," Aarti said slowly, "That's what they told Kabir... word for word."
They paused.
Something moved above them.
No wind.
No birds.
Just a soft creak, like a swinging rope or wood bending under invisible weight.
They stepped deeper into the abandoned wing of the temple—where no incense had burned in years.
The mural walls were faded. Half-painted stories of gods battling demons had chipped away, leaving unfinished hands reaching out, or faces with no eyes.
"What kind of temple is this?" Mitali muttered. "I thought temples are supposed to feel peaceful."
"This one feels like it's angry," Aarti said.
Behind them, a bell rang. Once. Alone.
They turned.
No one was there.
At the center of the room was a small offering table, but no flowers, no coconuts.
Just a single folded cloth, covered in dried turmeric and something darker beneath.
Aarti reached out, then stopped.
Mitali whispered, "What if this is blood?"
Aarti didn't answer.
She was staring at the old carvings beneath the table, barely visible in the cracked stone.
A script. Not Hindi. Not Sanskrit. Older.
Something about the symbols made her skin crawl.
Mitali stepped back. "Can we go now? This place is not giving 'Instagram aesthetic' anymore."
But Aarti wasn't listening. She crouched low, pulling out her phone to click a photo.
The flash went off.
And behind the momentary light—a third shadow appeared behind theirs.
Tall. Thin. Not moving.
"Aarti," Mitali whispered. "There's someone—"
She turned.
No one.
Nothing.
Outside, the wind changed.
Suddenly colder. Moist. Heavy.
As if the land had started breathing again.
Aarti walked toward the stone bells that lined the temple's edge. One had symbols scratched on it—recently. Not old. Fresh.
"DO NOT WAKE HER," it read.
"Who's her?" Aarti whispered.
They turned to leave.
Just then—
A woman's voice sang a lullaby from somewhere within the temple.
But the voice was too far… too echoing… and too dry, like someone singing through dust.
"Aaaa re nindiya tu aa re
mastiṣka chadh jaave sabka..."
["come sleep come, you take over every person's mind"]
They ran.
As they rushed out, past the banyan tree, past the broken arch, Mitali stopped.
She looked behind.
And her face went pale.
"What?" Aarti asked, breathless.
Mitali's lips trembled.
"There's no temple there. Just a wall. No steps. Nothing. Just... stones."
Aarti turned around.
She was right.
The temple was gone.
They didn't speak the whole way back.
The villagers watched them from dark corners with eyes too still.
One woman murmured something under her breath, loud enough for Aarti to hear:
"They've seen it now. The land won't let them leave."
Meanwhile, in a silent part of Bhairavpur, the girl with no bells stirred awake.
She smiled.
And whispered to no one:
"One has heard the voice… the other has read the mark.
The game has started."