The rain had just begun to drizzle when Rajiv Mehra stepped out of his office, clutching a small wrapped box in his right hand. The city, awash with streetlights and honking cars, pulsed like a restless organism around him. He barely noticed the chaos. His mind was somewhere else — at home, with Anvi, his seven-year-old daughter who was celebrating her birthday tonight.
For weeks, she had been reminding him: "Papa, you'll come early this time, right? You promised!"
And he had promised. Tonight, he would not let work steal away another moment. He had even bought her the gift she had been yearning for: a music box shaped like a carousel, with tiny white horses that spun while a delicate melody played. She had seen it once at the mall, her little fingers pressed against the glass, and her eyes had sparkled with a desire she did not voice. Rajiv had noticed. He had saved for it, hidden it in his desk drawer, and now, it was finally in his hands.
The streets were slippery. He tightened his grip on the gift and raised his umbrella. The clock on his phone read 7:40 PM — just in time to make it home for the cake-cutting at eight.
He texted his wife, Meera: "On my way. Tell our princess I have a surprise."
She replied almost instantly: "Hurry! She keeps looking at the door."
A soft smile tugged at Rajiv's lips. The kind of smile a man wears when his heart is full.
The road to home was familiar — a 20-minute drive on usual days, but traffic was snarled tonight. Cabs were full, autos rushed past without stopping. He decided to walk a few blocks to the main road where buses ran more frequently.
With each step, memories of his daughter's laughter filled his mind. Her first birthday, her first steps, the day she lost her first tooth. This gift, this small gesture, felt like his way of saying I am here, always — even if work often pulled him away.
Rain grew heavier. He shielded the gift under his coat.
Then it happened.
At the intersection near Connaught Lane, the pedestrian light turned green. Rajiv stepped forward, among a small crowd of office-goers. Out of nowhere, a black SUV hurtled down the wet road, its tires hissing, ignoring the red light.
The world spun.
There was a scream — his own or someone else's, he could not tell. Headlights flashed. A sound like thunder cracked the air.
Impact.
Pain flared, hot and instant, like the sky itself had struck him. The gift box slipped from his fingers, tumbling into the gutter. The music box inside cracked open, a faint tune playing a broken note before the rain silenced it.
Rajiv's body hit the ground, his cheek scraping the wet asphalt. He heard voices — far, distorted, as though underwater.
"Call an ambulance!"
"Who was that driver?"
"He didn't stop!"
Through his fading vision, he saw the SUV blur into the night, its taillights vanishing into the rain.
His phone buzzed on the ground, Meera's name glowing on the screen. He tried to move his fingers toward it but felt nothing. The rain soaked through his shirt, his breath came shallow.
"Anvi…" he whispered.
His chest rose one last time, then stilled.
When Rajiv opened his eyes, everything was… strange.
The rain had stopped falling on his skin. The cold that gripped him moments ago was gone, replaced by a strange, weightless stillness. He pushed himself up — or thought he did — and saw his own body lying there, lifeless, paramedics bending over it.
His heart, if it still beat, would have leapt out of his chest.
"What… what's happening?" he murmured.
No one heard him.
A man in the crowd walked right through his arm. Rajiv stumbled back, his voice rising, "Hey! Watch where you're going!"
No response.
The ambulance doors slammed. They were lifting his body inside.
"No! Wait! I'm here! I'm fine! Don't take me away!"
He ran after them, but his feet made no sound on the wet pavement. His hands touched the van's door — and passed right through it.
A cold dread seeped in. He turned to the place where his gift had fallen. The music box lay cracked, its little carousel horse broken off. He picked it up — and to his shock, it stayed in his hand.
Why can I touch this, but not them? he wondered.
The ambulance wailed off into the night, leaving him in the middle of the emptying street, the world moving as if he no longer existed.
Back home, the celebration had started to wither.
Anvi sat on the couch, wearing her pink party frock, the one with frilled sleeves she had picked weeks ago. Balloons floated lazily in the living room. A cake with eight candles waited on the table.
"Where is Papa?" she asked for the tenth time.
Meera forced a smile, "He's on his way, beta. He got stuck in rain."
But in her chest, a strange unease coiled. Rajiv never stayed this late without a reason.
Hours later, the call came. The hospital. The words she dreaded: accident… couldn't save him… hit-and-run.
The world cracked.
Anvi's birthday became the night of her father's funeral.
Rajiv stood there, in the corner of their bedroom, as they cried. He screamed, he begged, he tried to touch their shoulders — nothing. His fingers passed through their tears like smoke.
In the mirror, he caught his reflection — faint, pale, almost transparent. His eyes were hollow pools of sorrow.
"Why… why am I still here?" he whispered.
Then his gaze fell on Anvi, asleep from exhaustion, her small hand clutching the broken ribbon from the gift he never gave her.
Something pulled in his chest — not pain, not breath, but a force. A tether.
"I can't leave her like this," he said. "I won't."
The clock struck midnight. Outside, the wind howled. Inside, a father who had died hours ago took his first step as something else.
Not living. Not gone.
Something in between.
From that night onward, strange things began to happen in the Mehra house. Doors creaked open on their own. Anvi's toys would move slightly when no one was looking. Sometimes, late at night, the soft, broken tune of a music box would echo in the hallway.
And Anvi — she would wake and whisper, "Papa? Is that you?"
In the silence, a faint figure would pause at her doorway, his outline blurred, his eyes wet with something more than tears.
The world thought Rajiv Mehra had died in an accident.
But Rajiv Mehra… had just begun to haunt