Anjali Rao
Chapter 1
It was nearly dusk when Esha Karekar received the call. She had been cataloguing Maratha-era letters at the Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Vastu Sangrahalaya archives when her phone vibrated on the table. The number was unfamiliar, but the location read “Ratnagiri.” Something in her gut tightened.
“Miss Karekar?” came the voice, low and formal. “This is Advocate Uday Keni, calling on behalf of the Ratnagiri District Court. I regret to inform you that your grandmother, Vasundhara Karekar, passed away three days ago.”
Esha sat back in her chair. For a moment, all she heard was the faint buzz of a ceiling fan.
Her grandmother. The name stirred old images—mostly silence, shadowed verandahs, a lingering scent of naphthalene and sandalwood. Her father had never spoken much of Vairi village or of his childhood there. As far as Esha knew, her grandmother had been out of their lives for decades.
“I didn’t know she was still alive,” Esha said, not unkindly, just shocked.
“I understand. She lived reclusively. But she named you the sole heir in her will.”
“To what?”
“A house,” he replied. “Locally known as Diya Ghar. Located in Vairi, a coastal village in Ratnagiri district.”
The name meant nothing to her.
“You’ll need to travel there to complete the formalities. I should caution you, Miss Karekar… locals consider the house… unusual.”
Esha raised an eyebrow. “Unusual how?”
Keni hesitated. “Old. Isolated. Some say it’s cursed. But it’s yours now.”
That night, Esha stood in her Mumbai apartment, the humid city pressing against her windows, and tried to picture this house. Diya Ghar. An inheritance from a woman who had chosen silence over family. She poured herself a drink and sat near her bookshelf, where volumes on heritage restoration leaned neatly.
But something about the call wouldn’t let go of her thoughts. She felt drawn, like a half-open door had revealed a corridor she was meant to walk through.
She booked a train ticket for the next morning.
The Konkan Railway slid through lush green ghats, villages with red-tiled roofs nestled among coconut groves, and rivers swollen by the recent monsoon. As the train passed Chiplun and Khed, she pulled out the document Advocate Keni had emailed—a copy of her grandmother’s will, and a black-and-white photograph of Diya Ghar.
It was massive. An old Portuguese-style mansion with balcao columns, moss-covered walls, and a single lantern hanging near the main archway.
The train hissed into Ratnagiri station by late afternoon. Esha rented a white Omni van from a sleepy rental office. The route to Vairi was not on Google Maps, so she relied on a hand-drawn sketch.
The road wound along cliffs and rice paddies until a fading sign appeared: Vairi Gaon – Lok Sankhya: 137
The village was a smattering of tiled homes, one tea stall, and a temple. As she stepped out to ask for directions, the stares followed her. When she mentioned Diya Ghar, silence swept over the people.
An old man finally spoke. “That house still breathes. Strange things happen when city folk go there.”
“I’m just here for legal matters. I’ll be gone soon.”
He looked at her with eyes clouded by age and something older. “Just don’t light the lantern.”
Diya Ghar rose like a dream out of the fog and trees.
Built from dark stone and lime plaster, the mansion perched just meters from a cliff edge, the Arabian Sea crashing below. The architecture was grand but choked in vines. The lantern above the archway swung gently, though there was no wind.
Esha parked and stared.
She remembered now—a childhood drawing. Crayons, a house on a hill, a glowing lamp. She had drawn it when she was seven, though she had never seen this place.
The iron gate groaned as she pushed it open. Her suitcase wheels caught on gravel. She stepped to the door and inserted the large brass key Keni had handed her.
It turned with a moaning clunk.
The door opened into a hall that smelled of coconut oil, mildew, and camphor.
Wooden furniture under white sheets, chandeliers covered in cobwebs. A statue of Ganesha near the entry had marigolds at its feet—fresh.
Someone had been here.
She moved cautiously, flashlight in hand. Portraits hung on the walls—sepia-toned women in sarees, their eyes deep and distant. In one frame, a woman who looked eerily like her stared back, bindi in place, faint scar above her right brow.
In the main sitting room, the lantern’s twin hung on a hook. The room was perfectly still, yet she swore she heard the faint tinkling of anklets.
She stayed in the guest room, where the sheets were fresh and a steel water jug sat by the bed. Who was maintaining this place?
That night, the sea crashed louder. The window shook. She woke twice—once to the sound of someone humming an old lullaby, and again to a creak near the door.
She found nothing.
The next morning, while exploring the back corridor, she stumbled upon a locked wooden cabinet tucked behind an embroidered curtain. The lock was rusted, but the hinges gave way.
Inside were dozens of oil paintings.
Each one of a woman.
Not the same woman, but with the same eyes. The same scar. Some wore sarees from the colonial era, some in 70s blouses, one in a kurta Esha herself owned.
One painting bore the inscription: Esha Karekar – 1902.
She dropped it.
How could her name be on a painting dated more than a century ago? She felt cold despite the humid morning.
She ran to the front hall. The lantern above the archway was glowing.
It hadn’t been lit when she arrived.
She turned slowly. In the mirror above the prayer alcove, for a moment, she saw a woman in a green nauvari saree standing behind her.
When she turned—only empty air.
The lantern flickered again.
She whispered, “Aaji?”
And from somewhere deep within the house, a woman’s voice answered.
“Welcome home.”
Chapter 2
Esha woke early, stirred by the unfamiliar cries of peacocks and the distant murmur of the sea. Morning light crept in through the intricately carved jaali windows, casting lattice shadows across the old stone floor. For a moment, she forgot where she was.
Then she saw the lantern. It still glowed softly outside the archway, pale in the daylight, as though lit from within by memory rather than flame.
Esha dressed quickly and stepped out into the morning fog that hovered just above the dewy grass. Her steps echoed as she made her way through the veranda into the backyard. The entire property was enclosed in a wall of ancient laterite stone, and beyond that, wild forest crept in like a forgotten dream. Birds screeched somewhere above the canopy. She needed answers.
Back inside, she sifted through drawers, trunks, and cabinets. In a rosewood chest at the base of the staircase, she found an old visitor register. Most entries were faded, but one stood out—written in blue ink, clear and recent:
“A. Karekar – June 12, 2023. Returned to where it all began.”
Esha blinked. A. Karekar?
Her father’s name was Ajay Karekar.
He had died in 2005. Her heart quickened. Just then, the front door creaked open.
Startled, Esha rushed out. Standing at the threshold was a young woman in a green salwar-kameez, holding a brass tiffin.
“You must be Esha tai,” she said, voice soft. “I’m Rekha. I live in the village. My grandmother used to help Vasundhara bai. I bring lunch sometimes.”
“You have a key?”
“No,” Rekha said with a shy smile. “The door was open. It always opens when someone’s expected.”
Esha didn’t know how to respond.
They sat in the courtyard as Rekha opened the tiffin—bhakri, batata bhaji, and some rice. It felt surreal, eating a home-cooked meal in a haunted mansion.
“Do you know anything about this house?”
Rekha stirred her rice slowly. “Only what the elders whisper. That your grandmother came here as a bride and never left. That women of your family are born here, and sometimes they return even after… death.”
Esha raised her eyebrows.
“You mean ghosts?”
Rekha shrugged. “Spirits. Memories. This house remembers. Some say it records.”
After Rekha left, Esha wandered deeper into the house. At the end of a long corridor, she found a locked wooden door. The key she carried didn’t fit. But as she turned to leave, the door clicked open by itself.
Inside was a study. Dusty books, an old Remington typewriter, a large black diary with her grandmother’s name embossed in gold: Vasundhara Karekar.
She flipped through the pages. The handwriting was neat but urgent, as though each word were a warning.
“The lantern is not just light. It is a signal. It awakens memories that should remain buried.”
“Every Karekar daughter dreams the same dream.”
“Esha will return. I have seen her in the mirror.”
Esha froze. Her name, written years before. And then she heard it again. Footsteps. Soft. Wet. As though someone had just walked in from the sea.
She turned slowly. The mirror beside the diary shelf showed a figure standing behind her—long hair, white saree, eyes filled with sorrow.
Esha spun around. The room was empty. Only the diary remained, its pages fluttering in a wind that did not exist.
Chapter 3
The storm rolled in with little warning that night. Thunder cracked through the Konkan sky like ancient drums waking the dead. The Arabian Sea beneath Diya Ghar turned violent, crashing against the black cliffs as if it wanted to swallow the house whole. The rain came in sheets, hammering against the glass-paned windows, blurring the world outside into streaks of grey.
Inside, Esha sat curled on a carved teakwood divan in the study, her shawl wrapped tight around her shoulders. A cup of black tea steamed gently beside her. The old diary Vasundhara had given her lay open on her lap, its pages filled with aged ink and frayed ribbon markers that felt like veins in a body long dead.
She had returned to the same entry again and again.
“The locked room is the beginning. Not an end.”
Esha’s eyes drifted toward the shadows cast on the walls. That door. The one she had avoided at the top of the east staircase. Something about it had felt… wrong. But tonight, something had shifted. The house was restless. And so was she.
She stood, cradling the brass lantern she had discovered earlier in an old trunk. It was warm to the touch, heavier than it looked. When she lit it, the flame was strange—steadier than any flame should be in this wind, its glow almost golden-red, like an ember from another time.
The east staircase groaned beneath her steps, as though waking from a long sleep. At the landing, the heavy teakwood door awaited. It had no lock, no markings. Just a dull iron knob worn smooth by time.
She reached for it—and froze.
The knob was warm.
With a click, the door creaked open, releasing a breath of air that smelled of rose water, sandalwood incense… and something older. Metallic. Earthy. Faintly like dried blood soaked into stone.
The room beyond had not been touched in decades.
It was a preserved memory: a four-poster bed veiled in pale muslin netting; a shelf lined with clay dolls, their painted eyes cracked and staring; an ivory comb and mirror set resting on a lace-covered dresser. On a small writing desk sat a notebook—the kind a schoolgirl might carry.
Esha stepped inside slowly. The air was thick, yet sacred—like the inner sanctum of a forgotten shrine.
She opened the desk’s top drawer.
Inside lay stacks of yellowing letters—hundreds, perhaps more. Each one addressed by hand. Neela. Uma. Tara. Anjali… Names lost to time, but heavy with meaning. The ink on many had faded, but one line was repeated at the end of each letter, written with unwavering care:
“Light the lantern and remember who you were.”
Gooseflesh prickled up her arms. Her fingers paused on one envelope, newer than the rest.
Esha Karekar – unopened. Her breath caught.
With trembling hands, she tore the seal and unfolded the letter. The script inside was firm, deliberate. Familiar.
“You will see her soon. The one who shares your face. Do not run. Do not resist. She will show you what was taken.”
The lantern’s flame danced, though there was no breeze.
The room dimmed around her, shadows thickening like ink in water. Then—she felt it.
A presence. Not malevolent, but unbearably sorrowful. It pressed down on her like grief given shape.
She turned toward the mirror.
But her reflection was not her own.
A young girl stood there, thin and barefoot, her black hair plaited, her face hauntingly familiar. The girl was perched on the bed, her eyes locked onto Esha’s with an ancient weight. She didn’t speak—but her lips moved.
One word.
“Diya.”
The flame inside the lantern flared violently.
Esha stumbled back, the vision vanishing. Her heart thundered in her chest. She clutched the brass lantern and fled the room, the door groaning shut behind her as if closing itself.
Downstairs, the storm raged harder. Diya Ghar trembled in its bones. Esha threw open the diary on the study table and flipped through the earlier pages, searching frantically for meaning.
Then—she found it.
A rough ink sketch.
A girl, holding a lantern, standing on the cliff where the sea met the sky.
Underneath it, written in careful hand:
“She drowned but never left. Her soul waits with the light.”
And below that, a name:
Diya Karekar. 1924. Age: 12.
Esha whispered the name aloud, and something in the house seemed to exhale—a long, quiet sigh. The air shifted. The very walls seemed to lean closer. Then, without warning, the lights flickered and died.Total darkness. Esha froze—until something caught her eye through the front window. Light.
The lantern that hung above the archway—unlit for decades—was now glowing fiercely, cutting through the monsoon night with unnatural intensity.
Drawn to it, she walked slowly to the front door, pushed it open, and stepped onto the veranda.
Rain poured in sheets, yet standing beneath the arch was the girl from the mirror. A white saree clung to her thin frame, soaked to the bone. Her eyes glowed with pain, memory, and something like hope. In her hands she held a brass lantern, burning steadily.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Esha felt it. This was not a ghost. This was family. This was history. This was unfinished. And this time, she did not turn away.
Chapter 4
The next morning broke in a dull haze. The monsoon rains had not let up. Mist hung over the cliffs like a veil, and the sea below hissed and roared like a wounded animal. Diya Ghar stood still, almost too still—as if holding its breath. Esha hadn’t slept.
She had spent the night staring out the window, watching the lantern swing in the storm, long after the girl had vanished into the rain. Not a dream. Not a hallucination. She had seen her. The girl. Diya.
She moved like someone caught between two worlds—drifting through the house in silence, her bare feet tracing the creaking wooden floors. The mirror in the upstairs corridor was still misted over, but she couldn’t look into it anymore.
Something had shifted. She could feel it in her skin.
Vasundhara knocked gently around midmorning and stepped in without waiting. The older woman carried a steel tiffin box and an expression that mixed worry with weariness.
“You didn’t sleep,” she said.
Esha gave a half-smile. “Neither did the house.”
Vasundhara paused. “You saw her, didn’t you?”
Esha turned sharply. “You knew.”
“I suspected. But it is not for me to say. Diya Ghar doesn’t speak to everyone.”
Esha didn’t respond. She opened the tiffin and picked at the upma without appetite.
“Tell me,” she said finally. “Who was Diya? The real Diya?”
Vasundhara sat opposite her, folding her hands in her lap.
“She was your grandfather’s cousin’s daughter. Died in 1924. She was only twelve. They say she slipped while lighting the lantern during a storm and fell from the cliff. Her body was never found.”
“But her name is in the diary,” Esha said. “Along with that message—about her soul waiting.”
Vasundhara’s voice lowered. “Because that was never just an accident. Your family never spoke of it, but there were whispers. About how the girls of this house… fade.”
“Fade?”
“They become… not themselves. They see things. Hear voices. Some were sent away. Others vanished. Your grandmother used to say the women of this house have two lives. One in the body. One in the mirror.”
A chill passed through Esha’s chest.
“In the mirror,” she repeated.
She returned upstairs alone, her thoughts in knots. In her room, she faced the mirror with hesitation. It was just glass. Just reflection.
She leaned closer.
Her face stared back. Same tired eyes, same frizzed hair, same freckles on the left cheek.
And yet… different.
Her reflection blinked a moment too late.
She staggered back.
“No,” she whispered. “No no no.”
She rushed to the bathroom, splashed cold water on her face, stared into the smaller mirror there. Normal. She looked normal. Her breath came in quick bursts. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears.
She wasn’t losing her mind. She wasn’t.
But the house was inside her now. She could feel it.
That evening, she returned to the locked room, driven by a pull she could no longer resist. The door opened with a gentle push. The dolls stared at her again with chipped smiles. The comb and mirror still sat undisturbed.
But something was new.
A second lantern.
Sitting next to the bed, identical to the one she carried. A thin trail of smoke drifted upward—as if someone had just extinguished its flame.
On the writing desk, the child’s notebook had been turned open.
A new entry, written in shaky handwriting:
“She is waking. The one who looks like me.
She must finish what I could not.”
“Ask the well.”
Esha stared at the words until they blurred. She clutched the lantern in her hand tighter.
The well.
She had seen it before. In the backyard, covered in moss and long since sealed with stone slabs. She had thought it just another relic.
Outside, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. The night air was cool and humming with insects.
She walked out barefoot, letting the wet grass brush against her ankles. The well sat at the edge of the compound wall, half-swallowed by banyan roots.
She knelt.
The stone slabs were sealed tight, but there was an opening—a narrow crack between two stones. And from it, came something she did not expect.
A hum.
Low. Musical. Childlike.
A tune. Faint. Repeating.
She leaned closer, heart hammering.
And then—just for a second—she heard a voice.
Small. Soft. Singing.
“Diya diya… jale andhiyaara…
kisne bujhaya, kisne pukara…”
Esha’s hands flew to her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears she didn’t understand.
The song. It was hers. Something she had sung as a child, though no one had ever taught it to her. Something from dreams.
She ran back into the house, into the study, yanked open the diary again, flipping wildly.
There—on a loose scrap tucked inside the back cover.
A list of names. And beside each, a year.
Tara Karekar – 1899
Anjali Karekar – 1912
Diya Karekar – 1924
Uma Karekar – 1957
Meera Karekar – 1973
Esha Karekar – 2024
Each name underlined in red. The last one freshly written.
Her fingers trembled.
That night, she sat in her room, watching the lantern sway gently by her bed. The storm had passed, but her mind hadn’t quieted.
In the mirror across from her, she saw her reflection again.
And this time, the girl on the other side smiled first.
Chapter 5
The days after that night blurred into a strange twilight. Esha felt caught between the present and some shadowed past she could not fully grasp.
She found herself drawn again and again to the old well hidden behind the banyan tree, its moss-covered stones slick with rain. The hum from the narrow crack had grown stronger, now more like a whispered lullaby carried on the wind.
One evening, after the house had fallen into silence and the last orange glow of sunset seeped from the horizon, Esha crept outside.
The air was thick with the scent of wet earth and jasmine. Her lantern’s soft light cut through the dimness as she knelt by the well’s edge, fingers tracing the rough stone.
The crack in the slab seemed wider now, almost beckoning.
Taking a deep breath, she pressed her ear closer.
The song was clearer.
“Diya diya… jale andhiyaara…
kisne bujhaya, kisne pukara…
chhupa ke rakha, raaz yeh saara…
kabhi na mile, kabhi na samjha…”
The words were haunting — like a secret plea, a warning.
Esha’s heart pounded as the notes resonated deep within her.
She knew she couldn’t ignore this anymore.
With trembling hands, she fetched a sturdy iron rod from the storage room inside the house and returned to the well.
It took effort, but slowly, with creaks and groans, she pried one of the slabs loose.
Below was darkness deeper than night.
A stale, cold air blew up from the opening, carrying with it the faint scent of jasmine and something far older—decay, salt, and sorrow.
Her lantern flickered, but held steady.
Esha peered into the blackness.
Her voice barely a whisper, she sang the song along with the echo.
Suddenly, something shifted.
From the depths, a soft glow began to pulse—a pale lantern light, wavering and fragile.
Her breath caught.
The glow grew brighter, revealing the rough walls of a hidden chamber beneath the well.
And then, at the bottom, a small wooden box tied with a faded red ribbon.
Without thinking, she tied a rope to the iron rod and lowered it down carefully.
The box landed with a muted thud.
Esha’s fingers shook as she untied the ribbon and lifted the lid.
Inside were brittle papers, a cracked porcelain doll, and an ornate bronze lantern—the very same design as the one she held.
Among the papers was a faded photograph.
A young girl in a white saree, holding a brass lantern, standing on the cliff.
Diya.
Her eyes seemed to follow Esha’s every move, filled with sorrow and silent accusation.
A folded letter lay beneath the photograph.
With cautious hands, Esha unfolded it.
“To the one who finds this—
The lantern carries our stories, our pain, and our hope.
Do not fear what you do not understand.
The house remembers. The light guides.
Finish what was begun, and break the cycle.
— Diya Karekar”
Esha’s heart thundered.
The house was no longer just walls and memories. It was a vessel of trapped souls and unfinished tales.
And now, she was part of it.
The storm outside had returned, but Esha was no longer afraid.
With the lantern in her hand and Diya’s letter in her heart, she vowed to uncover the truth buried beneath the tides.
Chapter 6
The morning after her discovery beneath the well, Esha awoke with a heavy sense of purpose.
The brittle papers from the hidden box were spread across the study table, yellowed with age and written in a delicate, flowing script. She began to read, her eyes scanning the fragile pages that told a story of love, betrayal, and a curse woven into the Karekar family’s legacy.
Excerpt from Vasundhara’s journal, dated 1919:
“Diya’s spirit is restless. The curse of the lantern haunts this house—a binding promise never fulfilled. Our ancestors tried to protect the girls by sealing away their memories and confining their souls to the lantern’s light. But the darkness grows stronger with each passing generation.”
The words struck Esha with a strange mix of dread and hope. The curse—something she had only heard in whispers—was real. And it was tied to the lantern.
Vasundhara arrived shortly after, her face drawn but resolute.
“You’ve read it,” she said softly.
“Yes. The curse. What does it mean for me?”
Vasundhara looked away, then back with steady eyes.
“It means you must be the one to end it. To face the truth that the others could not. Diya’s death was not an accident, Esha. She was silenced because she knew too much.”
Esha felt the weight of those words settle in her chest.
“Silenced? By whom?”
“That night, your great-grandfather’s brother—Ambresh—discovered a secret about the family fortune and the land. Diya overheard him and tried to warn the others. But he was ruthless. The well became her prison and her grave.”
A shiver ran down Esha’s spine.
“So the lantern’s light is her soul trapped, waiting for release.”
“Yes,” Vasundhara nodded. “And you—Esha—carry her bloodline. The mirror’s other face. The one who can bring her peace.”
Esha glanced toward the mirror upstairs, its surface gleaming faintly in the dim light.
“Then I need to find Ambresh’s secret. The truth. To break this curse.”
Vasundhara handed her a worn key—an ornate brass piece etched with a crescent moon.
“This opens the old chest in the attic. It contains what you seek. But be warned—once opened, nothing will be the same.”
That afternoon, Esha climbed the narrow stairs to the attic. Dust swirled in the golden shafts of light that pierced the small window.
The chest was there—heavy and locked.
With trembling hands, she inserted the key and turned.
The lid creaked open, revealing stacks of faded documents, old ledgers, and a leather-bound journal.
She pulled out the journal, its cover cracked and worn.
Inside were pages filled with Ambresh’s handwriting—cold, calculated entries detailing land deals, threats, and a plan to claim the Karekar estate by any means necessary.
And then, a final entry:
“The child who knows too much must be hidden away, or else everything will be lost. Diya will not speak again.”
Esha’s breath hitched.
The truth was darker than she had imagined.
Suddenly, the attic door slammed shut behind her with a deafening bang.
She spun around, lantern trembling in her hand.
The mirror propped against the wall shimmered unnaturally.
Her reflection stepped forward—no longer a mere image but a shadowed double with eyes glowing faintly.
“Do you understand now?” it whispered.
“Do you see the price?”
Esha swallowed hard.
The house was alive with secrets, and now, so was she.
Chapter 7
The attic air grew colder as the shadowed reflection hovered near.
Esha’s heart hammered, but she forced herself to steady her breath.
“I want to break the curse,” she said quietly. “I want to set Diya free.”
The reflection’s eyes softened, then flickered like a dying flame.
“To break the curse, you must face the truth no one dared speak aloud,” it said.
Esha’s gaze drifted to the journal clutched in her hand.
“Ambresh’s greed… his betrayal… But what else? What secret was worth silencing a child for?”
The reflection pointed toward the chest.
With trembling hands, Esha sifted through the papers again, finding a hidden envelope sealed with a black wax emblem.
Inside was a delicate locket with an old photograph—a young woman with kind eyes and a faint smile.
A note, written in a woman’s handwriting:
“For Diya, my beloved niece. The truth is hidden in the letters between the lantern’s light and the sea’s whisper. Trust no one but yourself.”
Esha’s mind raced.
The sea’s whisper. The lantern’s light.
Her thoughts went back to the cliff and the old well—the places where the mystery had always lingered.
She realized the secret was not just about greed or betrayal. It was about family, sacrifice, and a promise broken generations ago.
Suddenly, the attic door creaked open.
Vasundhara stepped in, carrying a small bundle wrapped in faded cloth.
“I hoped you’d find this soon,” she said softly.
Inside the bundle was an ancient sari embroidered with intricate patterns, and beneath it, a set of faded letters.
“These belonged to your great-grandmother,” Vasundhara explained. “She tried to protect Diya. These letters reveal the final truth.”
Esha carefully unfolded the first letter.
It spoke of a forbidden love between Diya and a young man from a rival family—the source of the family’s long-standing feud.
Ambresh had discovered this secret and acted to keep it hidden, fearing it would destroy the family’s reputation and fortune.
Diya had planned to run away with her lover, but Ambresh had intercepted her plans.
Her death was no accident—it was a deliberate silencing.
Esha’s hands trembled as the weight of generations pressed down on her.
“To free Diya,” Vasundhara said, “you must tell her story. Give her voice where there was none.”
Esha nodded.
The house seemed to hold its breath, waiting.
The lantern’s light flickered in the corner of the room.
And in the mirror, the young girl’s face smiled—a fragile, hopeful smile.
Chapter 8
Esha stood by the cliff at dawn, the sea mist swirling around her feet. The ancient brass lantern, now glowing softly, hung from her hand like a beacon of hope and remembrance.
The letters, the locket, the diary—each piece of Diya’s story now carried in her heart. She had decided to share the truth, to give voice to the silence that had haunted her family for generations.
Back at Diya Ghar, the house felt lighter—as if the weight of sorrow was beginning to lift. The oppressive shadows that once clung to every corner now seemed to recede with the morning light.
Esha opened the front door, lantern in hand, and stepped out into the village. She spoke with the elders, shared Diya’s story with Vasundhara by her side, and invited the community to remember the girl who had been lost but never forgotten.
The villagers listened in hushed reverence. Tears glistened in the eyes of those who had heard only whispers before. The truth healed old wounds and mended broken ties.
That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Esha returned to the cliff.
The sea’s waves whispered gently, and the lantern’s light danced in the growing dusk.
She lit a small fire and placed the brass lantern beside it.
Closing her eyes, she whispered a promise:
“To you, Diya, and all the lost souls of this house—I will keep your memory alive. You are free now.”
A soft breeze caressed her face.
For a moment, she saw the flicker of a white saree and a young girl’s smile in the shimmer of the firelight.
The lantern’s glow pulsed once more, then slowly faded into the night.
Esha felt peace.
The curse was broken.
The Lantern House would no longer be a prison of shadows but a sanctuary of light and stories.
And as she turned to walk back home, the house behind her seemed to breathe a quiet farewell.
End
