Seven days went by after the parents came, and Maajaan House became a memory rather than something real. The walls where their laughter had once bounced off were now empty. The ritual signs had lost their color, the smell of ash finally dissipated, yet an unusual sense of emptiness lingered in the air—as though the house itself was aware it was soon to be abandoned.
They had all spent those final days in their own fashion. Sita was still weak, but she'd started humming once more. Her voice was weaker than previously, but each note contained warmth, as if to remind herself that she could sing. Shiva had gone back to her training, though she spoke little. Her energy was more reserved, more contained, eyes sharper. Aravali barely moved from her desk, writing notes, drawing out designs, and testing out her new gadget. And Iaa spent hours in the window seat, sketchbook at her side, observing the light on the Maajaan valley—her hands pulsating gently whenever her feelings overpowered her.
No one actually spoke about what was to happen next. But the truth hung there between them.
Their time here with each other was coming to a close.
When the letters arrived—official and true—it felt so odd. Weighty.
Aravali had received acceptance at Fashion Institute of Technology, New York, which is among the best fashion schools in the World. She'd smiled when she received the news, remarking, "Guess the universe wants me to make ghosts look stylish." But her eyes had glimmered when she wasn't noticed.
Iaa had already got her confirmation from **University of the Arts, London** to pursue **Graphic Design**. It seemed appropriate. Art had always been her own personal language, and now it would be her way of life. But deep down, she couldn't help but wonder if she would ever sketch the same way again since all she'd done at Maajaan.
Shiva got her acceptance from **Birmingham Business School** in the UK. The day she found out, she'd tried to act cool, joking, "Maybe I'll start a paranormal agency someday. Ghost management and all." But when she looked at the old ritual circle in the main hall, her smile didn't quite reach her eyes.
Sita's score last. **Seoul Institute of Performing Arts.** Bachelor of Performing Arts. She had always wanted to study overseas, and Korea was the destination she'd spoken of since school. The irony was not lost on her—that after dealing with actual spirits, she'd be acting for a stage instead.
The previous evening, the four of them came together in the courtyard for one last meal. Jeet uncle also joined them, weak but smiling. It was warm, the sky a watercolor of orange and gold.
No one uttered many words initially. It was one of those moments in which silence spoke louder than words could.
Shiva eventually broke the silence. "So… this is it."
"Yeah," Aravali said softly. "For now."
Sita smiled faintly. "We'll meet again. Maajaan will make sure of that."
Iaa looked around the courtyard. Every corner of the house carried a memory—the laughter, the fear, the fight, the discovery. "This isn't goodbye," she said. "Just… a pause."
Jeet nodded. "Exactly. Life doesn't always end where battles do. It continues—in new forms, in new places. And Maajaan will always be waiting when you're ready to return."
Sita leaned back against her chair, closing her eyes. "I'll miss this place. Even the creepy sounds at night."
Aravali chuckled. "I'll miss your overreaction to every noise."
"Hey!" Sita said, laughing weakly. "I wasn't that bad!"
"You screamed when a curtain moved," Shiva reminded her.
The laughter that came later was subdued, but genuine.
As the sun went down below the hills, Iaa got up, gazing out at the forest. "When we come back, things will be different."
"Better," Aravali said.
"Stronger," Shiva said.
"Together," Sita breathed.
They smiled.
---
The next morning, the cars were there. Suitcases ready. Papers at hand. Goodbyes proved harder than anyone had anticipated.
Jeet leaned on his cane, standing beside the stairs, as they packed their bags. "You've all grown," he said. "In ways even you don't realize yet. Be proud of that."
Sita hugged him first, being careful not to squeeze too hard. "Take care of Maajaan for us."
"I will," he replied quietly.
Shiva hugged him next. "If you happen to see any ghosts, tell them to behave."
He smiled. "I'll try.
Aravali nodded at him with a small salute before moving back. "Take care of the house. I shall return with updates."
At last, Iaa came up to him. "Thank you," she whispered.
"For what?"
"For trusting us when no one else did."
Jeet smiled weakly. "It was never about trust. It was about knowing who you are."
They lingered a moment longer, the morning wind wafting the distant perfume of the valley blooms. Then Iaa walked in the direction of the car, glancing over her shoulder for one final time at the house that had altered their lives.
---
As the vehicles drove along the dusty road, Maajaan House dwindled into view behind them. The broken windows reflected the sun, seemingly waving farewell. Within the house, the soft throb of power still lingered inside its walls—the remnant of those who had lived, struggled, and woken beneath its rafters.
Somewhere deep within the house, a candle ignited by itself. Dust rose on the old shelves in the secret passages. Whispers echoed, not dark or furious, but patient. Waiting.
---
Months later, each of them was in a different corner of the world.
Iaa strolled down the streets of **London**, sketchbook in pocket, golden glow in her fingers weak but never forgotten. She would find herself drawing Maajaan House occasionally, not even aware of it.
Shiva gazed out her dorm window in **Birmingham**, the chill wind bringing back the nights they had battled demons beneath the light of the moon. She had a business class assignment named "Management of the Unknown." Her professor believed it was metaphorical. It wasn't.
Sita sang on stage for the first time in **Seoul**, her voice shaking yet confident. The audience applauded, and for an instant, she was certain she heard the murmurs of her friends cheering with them.
Aravali, amidst rolls of cloth and drawings in her **fashion university**, gazed at a dress she had created. The design unwittingly resembled the shimmering sigil from Maajaan's ritual room. She smiled weakly, unaware why.
---
Life continued.
But at other times, when the moon hung high and the wind blew precisely so, they all sensed it—the same soft hum summoning them. The same whisper they'd all heard once.
*Maajaan is waiting.*
And in the darkness at the back of that old house, a pair of soft red eyes opened once more.
The tale wasn't finished.
It was just starting.