The storm hadn't stopped since sundown.
Thunder rolled across the sky like something heavy being dragged.
Aarya wrapped her shawl around her arms, staring through the kitchen window. The garden was soaked, the soil dark and heavy — and there, at the far end near the willow, a silhouette stood.
Tall.
Still.
Watching.
She blinked — and the figure was gone.
The next morning, sunlight broke through a pale, washed-out sky. Aarya stepped outside into the damp grass, her breath catching when she saw them—
Footprints.
Bare.
Large.
Leading toward the willow.
And stopping.
As if someone had stood there, staring up at her window.
Aarya shivered and turned away.
By afternoon, she tried to distract herself — cleaning, unpacking, opening cupboards full of old metal plates and copper vessels that smelled like the past. The house felt heavy, but she forced herself to stay busy.
A sudden knock broke the silence.
She opened the door — and stopped breathing for a moment.
A man stood there, rainwater running down his hair and collar. He wore a black kurta, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His eyes were dark — not black, but something deeper, like a memory. Something that knew her before she could even speak.
"I'm Ayan," he said softly, voice low and steady.
"I knew your grandmother."
His presence changed the air — the world seemed quieter when he spoke.
Aarya forced a small smile.
"I don't remember you from my childhood here."
He looked past her — not at her, but into the house — like he was searching for something familiar.
"Some of us," he said, "are easy to forget… until we're not."
The words stayed in her chest longer than they should have.
She stepped aside reluctantly.
He didn't move.
Instead, his gaze went to the backyard window — where the willow tree loomed.
"Has the tree spoken to you yet?" he asked.
Aarya laughed nervously. "The only thing speaking in this house is the plumbing."
Ayan didn't laugh.
Not even a hint of a smile.
His voice lowered, almost urgent:
"Don't go near it after dusk. No matter what you hear. Promise me, Aarya."
The way he said her name — like he had said it a thousand times before.
She felt something tighten in her chest.
"What are you so afraid of?" she whispered.
Ayan's jaw tightened.
His eyes glimmered with something she couldn't name — grief? fear? longing?
"I'm not afraid for me," he replied.
"I'm afraid for you."
Aarya's breath hitched.
He stepped back into the rain — as if he had never intended to enter in the first place.
"But we'll talk again," he said.
Not a question.
A promise.
Then he was gone.
No footsteps in the mud.
No sound of retreat.
Just absence.
And the willow swayed behind the house — though the air was perfectly still.