"Doors open, but to whom?Walls whisper, but to ears that choose.An empty home is never empty—It inhales when you exhale."
The group split after breakfast. Kabir, Zoya, and Aman took the temple road, muttering that the villagers there might know something about the girl. Abhay, Radhika, and Meghana decided to check the cluster of abandoned houses on the east side of the village, where the paint peeled like dried skin.
They arrived at a large mud house with its wooden door half-hanging, swaying slightly in the morning breeze. The air smelled of damp earth, faintly metallic.
"Looks deserted," Meghana whispered.
Abhay hesitated at the threshold, but Kabir wasn't here to lead now, so Radhika pushed the door open. It creaked like it hadn't moved in years.
Inside, dust motes swirled in the light cutting through the roof. Empty mats lay curled in corners. Clay pots were broken, their shards scattered across the floor. A single rope swung from the ceiling beam, frayed and blackened.
"Nothing here," Radhika sighed, kneeling to touch a piece of pottery. It crumbled at her fingers.
"No voices, no smell of cooking, nothing," Abhay murmured. "It's… hollow."
Meghana crossed her arms. "Maybe the girl's family lived here once. Maybe they left."
But the silence was oppressive—too thick, too knowing.
They turned to leave when footsteps sounded outside.
"Hey! Did you find anything?" It was Aman's voice. He entered with Kabir behind him, sweat dripping from their brows.
But when the second group crossed the threshold, the room seemed to shift.
The dust cleared. The mats looked fresh, laid out neatly. A clay stove flickered faintly in the corner. And on the far side of the room sat two women—faces blurred in shadow, weaving baskets. Their hands moved mechanically, never pausing.
Kabir blinked hard. "Wait… wasn't this place—"
Abhay stammered, "It was empty. Just now."
The women did not look up. Their weaving continued, a soft scratching noise that set everyone's teeth on edge.
Radhika whispered, "Do you… see them too?"
No one answered.
Zoya stepped forward, heart racing. "Excuse me? Do you know a girl named Chhavi?"
The women stopped weaving in perfect unison. Then, without raising their heads, they both pointed at the doorway.
Everyone turned.
For a heartbeat, they saw a girl—long hair, pale dress—standing outside. But the moment Kabir rushed to the door, there was nothing. Just the empty street, sun blazing overhead.
When he turned back, the women were gone.
The mats curled again. The stove was cold. The baskets lay half-finished, covered in dust.
"What the hell is going on?" Aman's voice cracked.
Abhay pressed his hands to his temples. "We were all here. We saw it. Didn't we?"
No one dared answer.
Later that afternoon, as they regrouped in the square, Kabir tried to laugh it off. "Hallucinations. Old houses, stale air, maybe some kind of fungus."
But his laughter fell flat. None of them looked convinced—not even himself.
Abhay kept glancing back toward the east side of the village, where the house's dark outline still stood. He swore he saw the curtain twitch.
The others didn't notice. Or maybe they chose not to.
Above them, the temple bells rang faintly, though no one was at the temple.
"Empty or full, the house remains—Holding the memory of footsteps,Waiting for the next breath to enter.When you look away, it looks back."