Morning in the village arrived without ceremony.
There was no birdsong to announce it, no gentle easing into daylight. Instead, Mihir woke to a dull gray light pressing against the windows like a held breath, the sky overcast and low. The air smelled of damp earth and river silt, thick enough to cling to the inside of his lungs.
For a moment—just a moment—he forgot where he was.
Then he felt the heat.
Not around him. On him.
Mihir sat up so abruptly the bed creaked in protest. His heart was already racing, body reacting before his mind could catch up. He lifted his hands into the thin morning light.
Ash.
Not soot. Not dirt. Fine, powdery ash clung to his palms and fingers, settled neatly into the lines of his skin as though it belonged there. It was warm—still warm—and when he rubbed his thumb against his forefinger, it smeared like something freshly made.
"Oh, come on," he muttered, voice hoarse.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, bare feet meeting cold stone. The mansion felt different in daylight—less oppressive, perhaps, but no less watchful. The walls bore old oil stains from lamps long gone. Family portraits lined the corridor outside his room, eyes dulled by age and humidity.
Every face was a Roy.
Every gaze followed him.
Mihir crossed to the washbasin and turned the tap. The water ran rusty for a second before clearing. He scrubbed his hands hard, nails biting into skin, until the ash slid away in gray spirals down the drain.
He stared at his reflection.
Dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes. His hair stuck up at odd angles, curls flattened on one side from restless sleep. He looked like what he was: a man out of place, out of time.
You're projecting, he told himself. Stress response. Sleepwalking, maybe.
Except he had never sleepwalked. Not once in his life.
He dried his hands and turned—
—and stopped.
Ash dusted the floor beside the bed.
One footprint.
Bare.
Facing inward.
Mihir crouched slowly, pulse roaring in his ears. The footprint was too clear, edges undisturbed, heel to toe perfectly formed. It was slightly larger than his own foot.
He checked. His feet were clean.
"No," he whispered.
He took out his phone, snapped photographs from every angle, then pulled his notebook from his bag with hands that refused to steady.
Field Note – Day TwoPhysical manifestation observed. Ash footprint present near bed. No evidence of entry. Environmental explanation unlikely.
When he looked up again, the footprint was gone.
Not smeared. Not disturbed.
Gone.
The ash had vanished as if the floor had swallowed it whole.
Mihir closed his notebook very carefully.
Breakfast was silent.
The kitchen was located in a separate wing of the mansion, open to the courtyard on one side. Clay jars lined the shelves, their lids sealed with red cloth and twine. An old iron stove squatted in the corner like a relic. Someone had left tea for him—black, strong, already cold.
He did not see Arjun.
That unsettled him more than the ash had.
After eating half a dry luchi and giving up, Mihir packed his bag with notebooks, a voice recorder, and a worn copy of Tantric Traditions of Eastern India. Today, he decided, he would do what he came here to do.
He would speak to the village.
The path from the estate to the village wound past a cluster of date palms and a stagnant pond slick with algae. A pair of children stood at its edge, tossing pebbles into the water. When they noticed him, they stopped.
One whispered something.
The other made a warding gesture Mihir recognized instantly—thumb tucked between fingers, palm outward.
Apotropaic, he noted distantly. Used against evil eye. Or spirits.
The village itself was older than the road leading to it. Mud houses pressed shoulder to shoulder, walls painted with fading alpana designs—rice paste spirals meant to invite Lakshmi, though many had been scratched through deliberately. The smell of mustard oil, cow dung, and boiling rice hung heavy in the air.
Conversation died as he passed.
A woman grinding spices paused mid-motion. An old man smoking a bidi lowered it slowly, eyes narrowing. Someone muttered his surname like a curse.
Roy.
At the tea stall near the banyan-lined clearing, Mihir finally stopped.
"I'm looking for anyone willing to speak with me," he said, keeping his tone respectful. "I'm researching local ritual practices. Funerary customs. Tantric traditions."
The stall owner—a thin man with a permanent squint and teeth stained red from paan—snorted.
"You academics always come late," he said. "When things already start moving again."
"Moving?" Mihir echoed.
A woman sitting nearby stiffened. "Don't say that word."
The stall owner shrugged. "He has the blood. Let him hear it."
Mihir's stomach tightened. "What blood?"
An old man spoke up, voice trembling but firm. "Roy blood. It doesn't sit quiet. Never has."
Mihir leaned forward. "My family lived here generations ago. I'm trying to understand—"
"Understand why they disappear?" a widow snapped. Her white sari was frayed at the edges, eyes sunken but sharp. "Why they burn before burning?"
Silence followed.
Mihir's mouth went dry. "Burn?"
The old man spat onto the dirt. "The banyan takes its due."
"It's a tree," Mihir said, a little too quickly.
The widow laughed. "So is a coffin."
A temple bell rang nearby—once. Twice. Three times.
The village priest approached, sandals whispering against the earth. His forehead bore thick ash markings, fingers stained yellow with turmeric. He smelled of incense and something bitter beneath it.
"You should not have come back," he said gently.
"I didn't know this place," Mihir replied. "I was a child."
The priest's eyes softened. "The land knew you."
Mihir swallowed. "What do you know about the banyan tree?"
The priest closed his eyes briefly. "It breathes."
A ripple of unease passed through the onlookers.
Mihir forced a thin smile. "Trees don't—"
"This one does," the priest said. "At night. When the boundary thins."
"What boundary?"
The priest met his gaze squarely. "The one your ancestors tore open."
No one spoke after that.
On the walk back, Mihir felt wrong inside his own body. His breath kept syncing to something else—something slower, deeper. The forest loomed closer than it should have, shadows thickening even though the sun had barely moved.
When the mansion gates came into view, relief flooded him.
Arjun stood waiting.
Hands folded behind his back. Watching the forest, not the road.
"You went alone," he said.
"I can handle myself."
Arjun turned. His gaze dropped immediately to Mihir's hands.
Mihir followed his eyes.
Ash coated his palms again.
"I washed them," Mihir said weakly.
"I know."
Arjun stepped closer, voice low. "It happens when the village recognizes you."
"What happens?"
Arjun reached out, taking Mihir's wrists gently.
Cold.
So cold it raised goosebumps.
"You start to belong again," Arjun said.
He led Mihir to the well, poured water over his hands slowly, deliberately, as though performing a ritual older than words. The ash dissolved reluctantly.
Mihir's pulse hammered beneath Arjun's thumbs.
"Don't walk alone at dusk," Arjun murmured. "And if you hear your name—"
The banyan exhaled.
Both of them froze.
Arjun tightened his grip just slightly.
"—don't answer," he finished.
Mihir looked at the forest, at the vast, waiting dark beneath the roots.
Something inside him wanted to respond.
And that terrified him more than anything else.