Rain still clung to the streets outside, leaving the city drenched in a gray haze. Aman leaned against his bedroom doorframe, trying to shake off the unease that had settled in his chest ever since last night. The house had grown heavier somehow, the silence more tense, and every shadow seemed to hold a secret.
He hadn't spoken to Riya since that evening by her door, but her presence lingered everywhere—like a whisper that refused to leave his mind.
Downstairs, he could hear the faint murmur of Mrs. Sharma moving through the living room. The old wooden floors creaked under her steps, echoing in the quiet corridor. Aman swallowed. He had to know something about this house—anything—but every question felt too dangerous to ask.
At breakfast, Riya appeared like a storm in human form. Hair slightly damp from the drizzle, eyes sharp as ever, and lips pressed together in that signature line of hers.
"Morning," Aman said, attempting casual.
"Don't call it morning," she snapped lightly, though there was a spark of amusement behind it. "It's barely seven. And you're late."
"I wasn't late," Aman replied cautiously, holding his mug of coffee.
"You were," she said, leaning against the doorway. "And besides, you walked like someone carrying secrets heavier than you can handle."
Aman froze. That tone—mocking yet serious—was unsettling. "What do you mean?"
Riya didn't answer, just gave him a look that made him feel like she could see every hidden thought in his mind. Then she moved away, leaving him staring at the space she had just occupied.
The day passed slowly. Every sound in the house felt amplified—the dripping faucet, the faint hum of the fridge, even the distant murmur of neighbors through thin walls. Aman tried to work from his laptop, but his focus kept drifting back to the unspoken tension he couldn't ignore.
By evening, a knock at the door startled him.
He opened it to find Suresh Verma, the neighbor, standing there with that unnervingly easy smile.
"Evening," Suresh said. "Mind if I come in? Just a quick chat."
Aman hesitated, then nodded. Suresh stepped in, shedding his wet jacket, and looked around the room as if it belonged to him.
"You know," Suresh began, leaning against the desk, "this building has a history. People don't usually stay long. Some leave quietly, some… don't leave at all."
Aman stiffened. "What do you mean?"
Suresh's smile didn't falter. "Just that secrets have a way of keeping people trapped. You'll see."
Before Aman could respond, the elevator bell rang downstairs. Mrs. Sharma's voice floated up, calling for someone. Suresh glanced toward the door. "Looks like she's busy. I'll leave you to settle in."
He paused at the doorway, dropping a final remark: "Don't trust appearances. Not everything—or everyone—is what they seem."
That night, Aman couldn't sleep. He stared at the ceiling, mind racing. He had noticed the subtle exchanges between Riya and Mrs. Sharma—small glances, half-smiles, and then quickly averted eyes. Something was hidden, but what?
He decided to walk around, trying to feel the rhythm of the house, hoping to notice something he had missed.
In the kitchen, a faint light spilled under the door to Riya's room. Hesitant, Aman stepped closer.
She was sitting at her desk, scribbling something in a notebook. The air smelled faintly of jasmine, the same scent that lingered throughout the house. He cleared his throat softly.
"Still awake?" he asked.
Riya didn't look up. "Why? Are you?"
"I… couldn't sleep," he admitted. "Thought I'd check on things."
She finally raised her eyes to meet his. For a moment, the intensity in her gaze made him step back. Then she smiled—small, fleeting, but enough to make him feel both welcomed and warned.
"Secrets are tricky," she said softly. "Sometimes they hide in plain sight. Sometimes they grow in darkness, waiting for someone to stumble upon them."
Aman frowned. "Are you saying… there's something I need to know?"
Riya tilted her head, expression unreadable. "Everyone has something they can't say out loud. You'll find out soon enough. But beware… curiosity has consequences."
The next morning, the power flickered again. Aman noticed Mrs. Sharma pacing near the living room window, whispering something under her breath. He stepped closer.
"Ma'am, is everything alright?"
She startled, then quickly composed herself. "It's… nothing. Just… the wiring."
He nodded, but her uneasy eyes told him there was more.
By the third week, Aman noticed small patterns forming. Riya's late-night walks, the secretive phone calls Mrs. Sharma took in hushed tones, and the occasional knock at the neighbor's door when no one was expected.
The tension in the house was no longer subtle—it was alive.
One night, a muffled argument reached his ears from the courtyard. Stepping closer to the window, he glimpsed Mrs. Sharma and Suresh standing close, voices low but intense. Words like "you promised" and "can't risk it" floated through the air.
Aman's heart raced. What promise? What risk?
Days later, Riya confronted him directly.
"You're noticing too much," she said, voice sharp. "Curiosity can be dangerous."
"I'm not trying to pry," Aman said, "I just… things feel off. Something is happening here."
Riya's lips pressed together. "Some truths aren't meant for everyone. But I suppose you'll find out sooner or later. Just… be careful whose trust you earn."
That night, Aman lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, realizing he had stepped into a house full of secrets, tensions, and unspoken rules.
A knock at his door interrupted his thoughts. He opened it to find an envelope slipped under the door. No name, no sender—just a folded sheet of paper.
Unfolding it, Aman's eyes widened:
"The first step in knowing the truth is surviving the night."
And with that, he realized the game had already begun.