Ananya stayed in the village guest house that night.
Sleep refused her.
At exactly 2:47 a.m., chanting reached her ears.
Not loud.
Not soft.
Perfectly balanced.
A mantra being spoken by something that did not need breath.
She followed the sound outside.
The village lay frozen.
Dogs hid under carts.
Oil lamps flickered away from the temple.
The chanting came from inside the shrine.
She stepped closer.
Inside, the diya flames moved backward.
Ash floated upward instead of falling.
Then she heard footsteps.
Bare.
Wet.
Circling her.
But when she turned—
Nothing.
Only her own shadow stretching too long across the walls.
The chanting stopped.
A voice whispered behind her ear:
"Tum yahaan kyun ho?"
(Why are you here?)
Her blood turned cold.
She ran, but the temple laughed softly through its stones.