Chapter 2: Shadows and Whispers
I saw the photo on my WhatsApp status.
The person who posted it was Rohan, a neighbour from our old building and a distant cousin. We’d always got along—he was the one who used to sneak mango pickles from our kitchen when Ma wasn’t looking.
I stared at the outline on the wall in the photo for a long time. The longer I looked, the more uneasy I felt. The yellowish glow of the wall, the familiar iron grill—all of it dragged me back to that day.
Because I remembered something: Once, my son woke from a nightmare, mumbling,
"Bhaiya, Didi is crying in the wall..."
At the time, I thought he just missed his sister. But now, looking at this photo, my breath caught in my throat, as if someone had called out my full name from the kitchen.
Back then, she vanished without a trace. We searched the entire colony—peered into gutters, behind battered Maruti 800s, calling her name with growing desperation. No clue, nothing.
Now, there was a clue.
The reason we couldn’t find her back then was because—
She was inside the wall.
Goosebumps prickled my skin. Even the ceiling fan’s gentle whirr couldn’t calm me.