𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐄 ✔ | 𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐈

Ashes and Inheritance

Vishal Malhotra sat alone in his late mother's study, the door locked behind him.

He hadn't entered this room since the funeral. The last time he stood in front of her glass-cased shelves, she had been lying in state just down the hall, her face frozen into the same cold serenity she'd worn most of his life. Even in death, she had demanded silence.

Now, he came not out of sentiment—but necessity.

The silence in the house was changing.

Miraya.

She had brought something with her.

Or perhaps, something had woken up because of her.

He reached for the decanter on the desk, poured himself a drink—neat, aged whisky—and took a long sip. Then he opened the second drawer. The key was still taped beneath it, just as it had been since he was a boy.

Click.

He unlocked the lower compartment and pulled out the envelope. Heavy. Thick with old photos and pages he wasn't supposed to read.

Most of the contents were familiar: his grandfather's estate ledgers, his mother's brittle handwritten notes. But something new had been added. A folded letter. Unmarked. Unfamiliar.

He opened it.

There was no salutation, no signature. Just one line, scrawled in delicate penmanship:

"She is not Aanya. And she is not safe here."

His blood chilled.

No one was supposed to know. Not beyond the inner circle. Not beyond him, and the registrar, and—

He clenched his fist. The ink was fresh. This wasn't from the past. It was from now.

Someone knew.

Someone was watching.

He folded the letter and slid it into his pocket.

Miraya Desai, he thought. What have you brought into my house?

Miraya sat on the edge of the bed, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Her hair was still damp from the shower she took after returning from the garden. She hadn't told anyone what she'd seen—if she'd really seen anything at all.

But the image of the woman in white haunted her like a burn on her skin.

Could it have been Aanya? Was that even possible?

She touched the edge of her diary but didn't open it. Her thoughts were too raw, her mind buzzing with suspicion. She'd seen something real. She was sure of it.

Or maybe she was unraveling.

The door creaked open.

She shot up—but it was just the maid. A small, wiry woman with lines etched deep into her face, who rarely spoke but always seemed to be listening.

"The master wishes to see you," the maid said.

Miraya nodded. She wrapped her shawl tighter.

When she entered the study, Vishal didn't look up. He was staring into the fireplace, the flames casting sharp shadows on his face.

"You went into the garden last night," he said. It wasn't a question.

"I couldn't sleep."

"Did you see anything?"

Her throat dried. "No."

"Lying doesn't suit you."

She stepped forward. "Neither does spying."

He turned to her then, sharply, and for the first time since the wedding, there was something openly dangerous in his expression.

"There are rules in this house. If you break them, something will break back."

Her heart stuttered. But she didn't back away. "Is that what happened to Aanya?"

A long pause.

The fire cracked behind them.

Vishal stood and walked toward her, stopping inches away. "Don't use her name like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you want answers you're not ready to hear."

She held her ground. "Then tell me the truth. Why did you marry me?"

He gave a dry smile. "Because the alternative was worse."

"For who?"

He didn't answer.

She turned, ready to leave, when he said, "Your sister kept secrets. Big ones. Dangerous ones. I think you're starting to find them."

She paused. Her fingers trembled, barely, at her sides. "Did you love her?"

Vishal looked back into the fire. "I'm still deciding."

That night, Miraya went to the west wing.

The one Vishal said was "being cleaned."

It wasn't.

The hallway was dusty, the lights dimmed, the doors lined with cloths to protect them from time. But there was no scent of polish, no cleaning tools in sight. Just emptiness.

She tried the doors. All were locked—until one gave in with a soft groan.

Inside, a bedroom.

Abandoned, but not forgotten.

The bed was made. The curtains were drawn. On the vanity, an open lipstick. Still red. Still fresh.

And the perfume.

Aanya's perfume.

She stepped closer. A photo lay tucked into the mirror's corner. Not a wedding photo. Not a family one.

A polaroid.

It was of Aanya. Dressed in white, barefoot in the garden.

Miraya's breath caught.

It was the same image she'd seen last night.

But how?

She turned the photo over.

Two words were written in a jagged, rushing script:

"Find the garden room."

The door slammed behind her.

She spun around—but no one was there.

Then, from beyond the hall, footsteps. Soft. Intentional.

Coming closer.

Miraya backed into the room, clutching the photo, heart racing.

The lights flickered.

And then, just before everything went dark, she heard it—faint and unmistakable.

A woman's laughter.

Familiar.

Terrifying.

Her sister's.