Varma returned that night, uninvited as always, his shadow spilling across the floor before his figure emerged.
"You've found it, haven't you?" Varma said with that wry smile. "The Whispering Door."
Arun clenched his fists. "What's behind it?"
"A room that remembers. A room that forgets. The question is—which will it do to you?"
Varma tossed him a small glass shard shaped like a teardrop. "Breathe into it. If it fogs, you're ready."
Arun exhaled onto the shard—and the glass shimmered, as though it had swallowed his breath whole.
The door opened without sound, only a sharp drop in temperature. Inside, walls were lined with ancient mirrors, their surfaces cloudy, each bearing a faint name scratched into its edge—names that made his skin crawl because some he recognized: neighbors, a classmate, his late father.
One name glowed faintly—his own.
"Not all names stay," whispered a reflection that wasn't his. "Some are borrowed. Some are taken."
He reached toward his name. The gl
ass beneath it felt warm.The Witch of Shards reappeared, stepping out of the mirror behind him.
"You touched it," she said flatly.
"I had to know," Arun replied.
She sighed, the sound like glass cracking. "Now it will start. Memories will slip. Faces will fade. Unless…"
"Unless what?"
"You give it a new name to feed upon. One dearer than yours."
Arun thought of his sister.