Niyati Sharma
Chapter 1:
The rain was relentless as the ferry docked at Mandwa jetty. Ishita Karve stepped onto the slick platform, her umbrella barely holding against the salty wind. Beside her, Aaditya Deshmukh stood with quiet pride, his suitcase in one hand and a folded umbrella in the other. The car that awaited them—a vintage black Ambassador driven by an old man with sun-wrinkled skin and sharp eyes—was to take them to their new home: Villa Rosa, the Deshmukh ancestral property gifted to them as a wedding present. Ishita had only seen photos of it—a white Portuguese-style house with red tiled roofs, arched windows, and a wide stone veranda—but even from the blurry Polaroids, something about it had drawn her in. The journey from jetty to villa passed through narrow lanes shadowed by coconut palms and ghostly banyan trees, the sea occasionally peeking through the mist. As they reached the crest of a small hill, the villa came into view—perched like a forgotten monument, wrapped in climbing vines and half-shrouded by rain. The house seemed to breathe, its wooden beams groaning softly in the wind, as if exhaling decades of secrets. Ishita clutched her shawl tighter around her and smiled faintly. This would be their beginning.
Inside, the air smelled of old wood, monsoon damp, and sandalwood incense. The main hall had a vaulted ceiling supported by fluted columns, and faded sepia portraits of long-dead ancestors peered down from the walls. Aaditya had barely settled in before rushing to take a work call, leaving Ishita to wander alone through the echoing halls. Her footsteps tapped across the cool tiled floor, stirring faint echoes. In the bedroom, lace curtains fluttered as wind slipped in through a crack in the windowpane. Across the field that stretched beyond the veranda, an ancient banyan tree stood rooted like a silent sentinel. The caretaker, Madhav, a man in his late fifties with observant eyes and deliberate silences, showed her the basics: where the switches were, how to light the antique geyser, and which doors were best left closed during stormy nights. As the afternoon waned into early evening, the rain softened, and a silvery mist curled around the base of the banyan. Ishita found herself sketching absentmindedly in her notebook—a woman in a red saree, her long hair blowing in the wind. She blinked, surprised. She hadn’t planned the drawing. It had just… appeared.
That night, sleep came late. Aaditya lay beside her, already deep in slumber, his chest rising and falling in quiet rhythm. Ishita watched the ceiling fan turn lazily, the creak of its blades blending with the occasional patter of rain. At some point in the early hours, she awoke with a jolt. The room was still. The air felt unusually cold. She checked her phone. 3:10 AM. Her heart thudded as she heard it—the faint, rhythmic chhan-chhan of anklets outside the window. Her body froze. Slowly, as if driven by something beyond her, she turned her head toward the open curtain. Across the field, under the banyan tree, stood a figure draped in red. Not bright red, but deep, blood-red—the kind worn by brides. The woman stood absolutely still, her head slightly tilted as if listening, her outline blurred by the mist. Ishita stared, breath caught in her throat. Then, the figure slowly lifted one arm and pointed—directly at the window. Ishita gasped and scrambled back in bed, shaking Aaditya awake. But when he sat up, disoriented and annoyed, the figure was gone. The banyan tree stood alone again, shrouded in fog. Aaditya muttered something about dreams and stress before turning back to sleep. But Ishita lay wide-eyed, her ears ringing with anklets and her heart repeating the time like a chant: 3:10 AM. 3:10 AM. 3:10 AM.
Chapter 2:
The morning after the vision—or dream, as Aaditya insisted—it was still raining. The villa was cloaked in a pale gray light, the fog hugging the veranda, and the banyan tree barely visible through the mist. Ishita stood by the bedroom window, clutching her mug of ginger tea, staring at the same patch where she had seen the woman. The silence of the house amplified every creak, every drip of water from the eaves. Aaditya, dressed in his crisp white shirt and navy trousers, was preparing to leave for Mumbai for a two-day work trip. He kissed her on the forehead, but there was distance in his touch, the way of a man who believed what she saw was just a new bride’s overactive imagination. “Ishita,” he said gently before leaving, “it’s a new place. Old houses play tricks. Don’t overthink it.” She smiled faintly and nodded. But the truth was, she hadn’t slept after that moment. Her eyes kept darting toward the banyan. And the sound of those anklets had etched themselves into her mind like grooves in an old vinyl record.
With Aaditya gone, the house grew larger, more hollow. Ishita decided to walk to the nearby village market to clear her mind. On the way, she passed a small church with moss-covered walls and a signboard that read: St. Thomas Chapel – Estd. 1854. Beside it was a tiny café, its bright blue signboard reading Rosy’s Shack. Inside, the smell of filter coffee, wet earth, and cinnamon welcomed her like a balm. A middle-aged woman with warm brown eyes and a sharp tongue greeted her. This was Rosy D’Souza, the owner. Over coffee and bhajiyas, Ishita casually mentioned the villa and how eerie it felt at night. Rosy’s smile faltered for the briefest second. “Villa Rosa?” she said, her voice low. “That place carries weight. Some call it cursed, but I think it’s more… unfinished.” When pressed, Rosy leaned closer and whispered, “They say a bride once lived there. Beautiful, wild-hearted. Burned in her own room on her wedding night. Her screams echoed through the mango grove. After that… no bride stayed in that house for long.” Ishita felt a chill run down her spine. She didn’t tell Rosy what she had seen. Not yet.
Back at the villa, Ishita wandered restlessly. Her sketchpad lay open on the table, the red-saree figure now more defined—eyes black as coal, face half-hidden behind wet hair, feet adorned with delicate anklets. She hadn’t meant to draw again, but her hands moved on their own. That night, she lit a diya near the window before bed, more out of instinct than belief. Sleep came in uneasy waves. And again, at 3:10 AM, she woke. This time, the sound wasn’t just anklets—it was the whisper of fabric moving, as if someone walked just outside the veranda. Ishita dared to peek through the curtain. The red figure stood closer now—no longer under the banyan but halfway across the field. Closer to the house. Her posture rigid. Her head slowly turned toward the villa, and her face… there was no face. Only shadow and fury. Ishita stumbled back, heart pounding. She tried to scream but found her throat dry. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and burnt flowers. And for a moment, she could swear she heard a voice—low, broken, almost a sigh—saying, “He lied.”
Chapter 3:
The next morning, the villa was soaked in golden sunlight as if the storm had never happened. But Ishita felt the weight of the night pressing against her bones. She sat quietly at the breakfast table, unable to eat, her thoughts circling the faceless figure in red. The words she had heard—“He lied”—echoed in her ears like a whisper threaded with smoke. Seeking answers, she decided to explore the villa further. The house was a maze of old rooms, high ceilings, and timeworn artifacts. In the corridor near the library, she found a locked door she hadn’t noticed before. Curious, she fetched the set of rusted keys Madhav had left her. The third one turned with a protesting creak. Inside was a small bathroom, unused and musty, its walls stained with age. As she stepped in, her foot struck something hard. She looked down—and froze. A scorched silver anklet, blackened on one side, lay half-buried behind the chipped basin. Her breath caught. The design was old, intricate, with tiny bells that no longer chimed. Ishita didn’t scream. She just held it in her palm, the metal strangely warm. That evening, she began to sketch again, unable to resist the pull. Her fingers moved with certainty, bringing the red-saree woman fully to life on the page—every fold, every ghungroo, every trace of wrath in her ghostly stance.
That night, after dinner, Ishita asked Madhav about the history of the house. The old caretaker stirred his tea slowly and said, “This house has seen joy… and silence. Many come, few stay.” When she pressed further, he hesitated. “Long ago, there was a wedding. A young bride came here. Padmavati was her name, but we all called her Paddy. Beautiful, like the full moon. But stubborn. Too bold for her time.” He looked out at the banyan, his voice quieter now. “She fell in love with a fisherman. A man from the wrong caste. There was… trouble. After her wedding, she tried to run. No one saw her after that. Some say she fled. Some say she didn’t.” His eyes clouded, as if drowning in memory. “But every monsoon, someone hears her anklets. And always at the same time. Same place.” He stood up abruptly, refusing to say more. That night, alone in the master bedroom, Ishita couldn’t sleep. The silence of the villa was thick, dense, unnatural. At 3:10 AM, she sat up even before the sound came. And there it was—chhan-chhan, slow, deliberate. She didn’t look out the window this time. Instead, she reached for her sketchbook and began drawing blindly, letting the fear guide her hand. When she looked down, her breath caught. She had drawn a flame engulfing a bridal veil—and in the fire, a pair of eyes stared back at her. Eyes filled with betrayal.
The following day, Rosy invited Ishita to her café again. Over steaming cups of coffee, Ishita cautiously shared what she had learned, including the name Padmavati. Rosy’s expression darkened. “There’s an old legend,” she said. “The Deshmukh family once tried to cleanse their name. There was a ritual… they said she was unfaithful. Dishonored the family. She died inside that house, but they never buried her. Not properly.” She slid a faded envelope across the table. “I collect old estate papers and letters. Found this at an auction in Murud. It mentions a woman named Paddy… writing to someone named Shahir.” Ishita opened the letter with trembling hands. The handwriting was delicate, full of longing and pain. “They say I’ve shamed them. But how can love be shameful? I want to leave tonight, before the rain traps me again. Meet me by the old fig tree…” The letter ended abruptly, ink smeared by what looked like a tear—or blood. That night, as the rain returned and Aaditya’s call dropped midway due to poor reception, Ishita stood by the window again. This time, the woman in red was just outside the veranda—closer than ever. Not standing. Watching. And this time, she was not alone. Behind her, flickering in the mist, were flames.
Chapter 4:
The next morning, Ishita awoke with a pounding headache and a smear of red across her fingers—crimson pastel from her sketches, or something else, she couldn’t tell. The air in the villa felt heavier now, not with dust, but with something unseen—something that watched. Determined to make sense of what she had uncovered, Ishita rummaged through the dusty study, where Aaditya’s grandfather’s books still sat. Behind an old wooden desk, she found a faded family tree pinned under glass. It traced generations of Deshmukhs—all with bold names in gold ink. Near the bottom, between two horizontal branches, a nearly erased name caught her eye: Padmavati. No surname. No spouse mentioned. Just the name, etched in finer print, as if it were deliberately added later. Ishita leaned closer and noticed something else: the year of death listed was also the year of marriage—1956. She snapped a photo of it. Something didn’t add up. That night, she confronted Sujata Deshmukh, Aaditya’s mother, who had arrived to check on the property. “Who was Padmavati?” Ishita asked directly. Sujata froze for a moment, her steel composure faltering. “No one of importance,” she replied coldly. “A distant cousin who died young. Let the dead rest, Ishita. This house needs peace, not probing.” Her words felt like warning dressed as concern.
But Ishita had no intention of letting it go. Later that evening, she met Rosy at the chapel ruins behind the old market. Rosy handed her a yellowed police document. “I know the clerk at the tehsil office,” she said with a grim smile. “This was never meant to be found.” The file contained a missing person’s report, filed by a man named Shahir Nimbalkar, dated three days after Padmavati’s wedding. It mentioned a “Padmavati D.” and stated she was last seen wearing a red bridal saree near the Deshmukh estate. The report had no follow-up. No closure. Just a scrawled note: ‘No body recovered. Family uncooperative.’ Ishita’s hands trembled as she held the file. Everything was beginning to form a shape—one laced with betrayal. That night, Aaditya returned from Mumbai, tired and distant. When she showed him the documents, he barely glanced at them. “Do you think I want to believe my family burned a woman alive?” he snapped. “This is insane. We don’t even know if it’s the same Padmavati.” Ishita stepped back, hurt by his resistance. “The house knows,” she said softly. “She’s still here because someone buried the truth.” Aaditya rubbed his eyes, his face tight. “You’re chasing ghosts, Ishita. I need you here, with me. Not with the dead.”
But Ishita couldn’t stop. That same night, the ghost returned—not outside, but inside the villa. At 3:10 AM, the lights flickered, and a gust of wind slammed the windows shut. The air grew bitterly cold. In the mirror of their bedroom dresser, Ishita saw her own reflection twist—her eyes turned dark, her mouth opened in a silent scream—and behind her stood Padmavati, her saree wet with blood, her anklets clinking without rhythm. Ishita turned sharply, but the room was empty. The reflection had returned to normal. She sank to the floor, breath heaving, heart racing. Something had shifted. The spirit was growing restless, her fury closer to the surface. The truth wasn’t just about a tragic death—it was about a family conspiracy, decades-old, built on silence. Ishita whispered a promise to the shadows around her: “I will find your story. I will speak it.” And from somewhere in the dark hallway, the anklets answered—once, twice, like a heartbeat.
Chapter 5:
The rain returned with a vengeance on the night of the full moon, lashing against the tall windows of Villa Rosa and soaking the tiled roofs till they glistened like old bone. Ishita couldn’t rest. The air inside the house was stifling, thick with secrets. Aaditya had gone to sleep early, silent and withdrawn, leaving her alone in the hall with her drawings, newspaper clippings, and letters spread across the floor like broken puzzle pieces. The more she connected, the more she saw—Padmavati’s story was not one of myth, but one of deliberate erasure. Her forbidden love, the family’s fury, her disappearance—all pointed to a betrayal cloaked as honor. And now, Ishita was beginning to feel the pull of the past in her bones. At midnight, she walked through the drizzle to Rosy’s Shack, where Nirmala Tai, the village healer, waited in the candlelit back room. A frail figure wrapped in red-and-black cotton, Nirmala had eyes like burning coals and a voice that sounded older than the hills. “You walk with her shadow, child,” she whispered to Ishita. “And she has chosen you to speak.” Ishita, shivering but resolute, asked what she could do to bring peace. Nirmala handed her a small clay bowl filled with black salt, hibiscus petals, and turmeric ash. “At 3:10, light this under the banyan. But do not speak. Let her speak through you.”
The wind howled as Ishita stood under the banyan tree, barefoot, bowl lit and placed before her. The branches above swayed as if alive, whispering secrets in a language only the dead remembered. The villa behind her loomed like a sleeping beast. As the clock struck 3:10 AM, time seemed to fold inward. The wind stopped. The rain paused mid-air. And then, she felt it—a coldness that wasn’t of this world. Her body froze as an unseen force pressed against her skin. The flames of the bowl flared violently, and Ishita felt a sudden snap inside her head. Her eyes closed involuntarily, and darkness overtook her. In that instant, Padmavati entered her—like ink spreading through clear water. Ishita stood stiff, her lips moving without will. She spoke in a voice that wasn’t hers. “He promised me we’d leave… He said he loved me. But when they found out, they locked the door. They poured kerosene. I screamed. I bled. And they watched.” Tears streamed down Ishita’s face as her limbs trembled. “I loved once. That was my sin.” The fire in the bowl crackled, and for a second, Ishita’s face contorted—not in fear, but in rage. Her voice rose in the wind: “Tell them I remember.” And then, she collapsed.
When Ishita awoke, she was lying inside the villa, on the cool tiles of the hallway. Her palms were smeared with ash, her fingernails crusted in red dust, and her voice hoarse. Aaditya stood over her, pale and shaken, holding her sketchbook. “You wrote this,” he said, flipping through page after page, each one filled with detailed recounting of Padmavati’s final night—details Ishita never knew, never heard, but had written as if she had been there. She stared at it in disbelief. On one page, in unfamiliar handwriting, were the words: “The bloodline is cursed until the truth is spoken.” Aaditya said nothing more. That night, he didn’t return to bed. Ishita sat near the window, staring at the banyan tree once again. And this time, Padmavati did not appear. The silence was different now—not empty, but waiting. Ishita knew then that the spirit had used her, not to haunt, but to warn. And that whatever came next would no longer be whispers or dreams—it would be reckoning.
Chapter 6:
The morning after the ritual, Villa Rosa felt transformed—not lighter, but more alert, as if the house itself had woken up. The teakwood doors groaned louder, the wind whistled more sharply through the stairwell, and the floorboards seemed to whisper beneath every step Ishita took. She wandered through the garden after sunrise, bare feet sinking into wet grass, drawn by a strange pull she couldn’t explain. The banyan tree loomed quietly behind her as she found herself standing before a half-choked path covered in moss and fallen leaves. It led to the forgotten corner of the estate, where a stone well lay hidden—encircled by fern, lichen, and time. The mouth of the well was covered in rotting planks, nailed in long ago, now loose at the edges. Ishita hesitated for a heartbeat, then pried one board off with a rock. She peered inside. The well was deep, its walls slick with moss, and at the bottom, caught in a fragile tangle of old roots, something glinted. Heart pounding, she tied her dupatta to a stick and lowered it slowly. After several tries, she retrieved what she had seen: a wedding ring, dulled with age but unmistakably gold, tied with red thread. The ring bore an inscription, faint but readable—“P. to S.” Her breath caught. Padmavati to Shahir. It wasn’t just legend. It was all real. And this was proof.
Shaken but focused, Ishita returned to the house and carefully cleaned the ring. She placed it in a glass bowl with water and stared at it, as if it would speak. Her phone buzzed—a message from Rosy: “Meet me. I found something.” At the café, Rosy handed her a sealed envelope. “The clerk you met last time? He dug up a civil case from the late ’50s. Someone tried to sue the Deshmukhs for wrongful death. It was hushed up. And the petitioner? Shahir Nimbalkar.” The file included a court statement that was never heard. In it, Shahir claimed his bride had been locked in her room, denied escape, and likely killed. The case was dismissed due to ‘lack of evidence.’ “But this ring?” Rosy said, pointing at Ishita’s bowl, “This is the evidence they buried.” Ishita felt rage rise in her chest. All her life she had been told that ghosts lingered due to curses or sin. But now she saw it clearly: ghosts linger because justice was denied. That evening, she returned to the well and stood silently, holding the ring. She whispered, “I know what they did to you, Paddy. And I’ll make them say it out loud.”
Later that night, Villa Rosa turned violent. Not with flames or blood—but with unraveling. Aaditya, now gaunt and paranoid, admitted he’d begun dreaming of fire, of someone holding his wrist in the dark. “I smell burnt hair in the sheets,” he muttered. “I hear her in the bathroom mirror.” He refused to sleep. Sujata Deshmukh arrived the next day, called in by a shaken Aaditya. When Ishita confronted her again—this time with the ring and the court file—Sujata’s face turned to stone. “You don’t know what it was like back then,” she said, voice sharp. “Padmavati shamed the family. She wanted to run away. Do you know what scandal meant for people like us?” Ishita didn’t shout. She only placed the ring on the table and whispered, “She was nineteen. And she was in love. That’s not a crime.” For the first time, Sujata flinched. That night, at 3:10 AM, Aaditya woke screaming. His wrist bore a red welt—as if fingers had gripped it too tightly. Ishita, standing at the foot of the bed, didn’t comfort him. She simply looked toward the hallway mirror.
In it, Padmavati stood silently—watching. Waiting.
Chapter 7:
The rain had stopped, but the skies over Alibaug remained overcast, the clouds hanging low like a warning. Villa Rosa was silent, too silent—its air thick with something unspoken, something close to snapping. Ishita no longer felt fear; what she felt now was purpose. She spent the morning gathering every piece of evidence she had—letters, the wedding ring, the court file, the family tree, and her own sketches that now seemed less like art and more like confession. Aaditya barely spoke. He sat near the window, haggard and haunted, his eyes fixed on the banyan tree outside. Ishita approached Madhav, the caretaker, one last time. She found him in the toolshed, wiping down rusted lanterns. “Tell me the truth,” she said softly, “Tell me what happened to Padmavati.” The old man didn’t look at her, but his hands trembled. After a long silence, he whispered, “I was seventeen. A servant boy. I saw things… things I never should have.” His voice cracked. “She begged them. She cried, ‘He loves me. I love him. Isn’t that enough?’ But the family said she had cursed the bloodline.” He paused, staring at the floor. “That night, they locked her in the room. I saw Sujata Bai holding the key. There was shouting. Then silence. Then the smell of… burning.” His eyes filled with water. “I should have opened the door. I should have helped her.”
Ishita’s fists clenched. “And they just buried her truth?” Madhav nodded. “They said she ran away. No body. No fire. Just… silence.” He handed her something wrapped in cloth—an old photograph, cracked at the corners. In it stood a young girl in a red saree, standing beside the banyan tree, eyes defiant, mouth smiling. “That was taken two days before her wedding,” Madhav said. “She wanted to marry Shahir. But they brought a husband from another family. She never made it past the second night.” Ishita took the photo back into the house and placed it on the mantel. “She will be remembered now.” The Deshmukh family was gathering at the villa for Sujata’s birthday in two days—uncles, cousins, people who had long distanced themselves from the estate. Ishita decided it would be then. She would tell them all. That night, Ishita prepared the front hall with candles and the ring placed in a small silver tray beside Padmavati’s photograph. She wore a simple red cotton saree, a silent symbol of the one who had been denied her voice. At 3:10 AM, she stood by the banyan again, and this time, she spoke: “Come, Paddy. Let them see you.”
The wind howled. The clouds parted just enough to let moonlight fall across the tree. Then, without sound, the ghost came. Padmavati’s form materialized—saree soaked in blood and ash, her face half-burned, half-beautiful. She didn’t speak. She simply raised her hand, pointing toward the house. Ishita followed her gaze. Inside, the lights began to flicker. Aaditya stood near the staircase, pale and shaking. And then, the mirror in the hallway cracked open with a shriek—not glass, but sound. From it poured images: the burning room, a young girl banging the door, Sujata’s younger face holding the key, a matchstick flaring. Ishita cried out, “No more hiding!” Sujata came running down the stairs, screaming “Stop this madness!” But Ishita turned and shouted, “Tell them! Tell everyone what you did!” The room roared with wind, the candle flames dancing violently. Padmavati stood now in the middle of the hall, anklets ringing louder and louder, each step shaking the air. “She won’t leave,” Ishita said, “until you speak the truth.”
Sujata collapsed into a chair, her eyes wet. And in a voice barely audible, she said, “We were afraid. Of scandal. Of disgrace. She wouldn’t listen. She wanted to run away. So we locked her in. Just to teach her… not to disgrace the family.” Silence followed. Sujata wept. Aaditya looked away. The ghost stood still. Slowly, her flames dimmed. The wind faded. Padmavati looked at Ishita, her eyes no longer vengeful—just sad. And then, like smoke dissipating in light, she vanished.
But not before her anklets gave one last chime.
Justice, once buried, had cracked the earth open. And the banyan tree, under which betrayal once bloomed, stood reborn.
Chapter 8:
Morning arrived slowly over Villa Rosa, painting the walls with pale gold and drying the rain-slicked floor of the veranda. But something had changed. The air, once heavy with secrets, now seemed washed clean. The banyan tree stood still and silent, no longer a watchtower of vengeance but a witness finally relieved of its burden. Inside the villa, Ishita walked barefoot through the house, her red saree trailing behind her, her fingertips brushing the walls that had once heard screams and held silence. She stopped in front of the cracked hallway mirror—now covered with cloth—and slowly uncovered it. Her own reflection greeted her. Alone. At peace. Padmavati was gone.
Not forgotten.
Not erased.
Gone, because she had finally been heard.
The Deshmukh family did not stay for Sujata’s birthday gathering. After the confrontation the night before, relatives left quietly and quickly. Sujata herself remained behind a single night longer, locked in her room, grieving—not just for the girl she’d wronged, but for the woman she had become while keeping the truth buried. She left early the next morning, without ceremony. Aaditya lingered. He was no longer angry, no longer dismissive. Just distant, haunted, and ashamed. “I didn’t know,” he said to Ishita in the kitchen. “And that makes it worse.” She didn’t respond. There was nothing to say that hadn’t already been spoken in fire and silence. He left the same day, saying he needed time—space to understand who he was outside of a family that once let a young woman burn in the name of pride. Ishita didn’t stop him. Villa Rosa was hers now. Not by inheritance, but by the stories it had offered her, the truth it had asked her to carry forward.
Weeks passed. The monsoon ended. The fields around the villa turned green with new grass, and the banyan tree—once gray and ghost-haunted—began to sprout small red blossoms among its massive roots. Ishita worked on a new book, an illustrated novella titled The Red Saree. It told the story of a young bride, a forbidden love, and a fire no one wanted to remember. But it did not end in horror. It ended with a woman standing in the ruins, holding a wedding ring and a story the world had buried too long. Ishita drew every page by hand, and in every illustration, the bride wore the same expression—not sorrow, but defiance. When the book was published, it stirred quiet shock and fierce admiration in literary circles. Readers whispered that the drawings felt haunted, as if the woman within them was watching, still alive in ink and shadow.
On the last night of September, Ishita lit a single diya under the banyan tree. No spirits appeared. No anklets rang. But the flame burned steady in the windless dark, as if guarded by something unseen. She knelt by the tree, placed the wedding ring and the old photograph of Padmavati beneath its roots, and whispered, “Your story is yours now.” The earth felt warm beneath her fingers.
Somewhere in the distance, a koel called. A train hooted. Life moved on.
But in the heart of Villa Rosa, past the veranda and the stone path, in the courtyard where blood was once washed away, a single red flower bloomed every morning.
And not once again—not ever—did the anklets return.
Because Padmavati had found her justice.
And the house, at last, had found its peace.
-End-
