Whispers of Her

The old house in Mathura had been locked for several years. When Rohan turned the key now, dust curled into the air, heavy and stale. Behind him, Naina shifted uneasily. They had come back only because their father was gone, cremated two days ago on the banks of the Yamuna.

"Let's finish quickly," she murmured.

The rooms felt smaller than Rohan remembered. The walls bore the stains of dampness, and the paint flaked like old skin. But it wasn't decay that made the air thick…it was memory.

Rohan strolled around the drawing room. He could hear her voice, her sweet voice, calling him. "Bhai… bhai." That lovely voice never left his heart or his mind. He took a deep breath, trying to get his emotions in check. But now was not the time for confessions or to dig into the past. Naina already had enough on her plate. And so did he. 

Rohan entered their bedroom. His mind filled with echoes of laughter that no longer existed. He could picture his youngest sister, Ankita, sitting right there in the middle of the room,  sprawled on the floor, surrounded by crayons and sheets of paper. She would always be lost in her little world of imagination, creating beautiful drawings and pictures. Her elder sister, Naina, always scolded her for not tidying up. 

Rohan looked at himself in the tarnished mirror covered with a layer of dust. He opened the dressing table drawer and found pins, clips, and rubber bands. A pang of guilt twisted in his chest. He always wanted to speak the truth, but he just didn't dare to deal with the outburst afterward. He sat on the edge of the bed and let the memories wash over him. "Bhai… bhai! Come see what I've drawn." Her voice, so small, so fragile, so innocent, whispered through the room. 

Even after all these years, the house remembered her. And so did he.  

Rohan had never told anyone what he heard that night.

He'd been twelve, in bed reading,  when he heard his father's drunken voice by the well. Harsh, slurred, angry. Then came a cry… small, desperate, cut off too quickly. After that, silence. 

He wanted to believe it wasn't Ankita. He wanted to believe his father hadn't… But the sound lodged in his chest and never left.

In the days that followed, whispers spread through the neighborhood; harmless at first, then cruel. "Oh, well… just another girl," someone had said, shaking their head. Their father's temper was legendary; his disappointment was heavier than any grief.

Rohan had overheard fragments of his mother's sobs, words he didn't understand then: "He told me we couldn't afford her. If only she'd been a boy."

He understood now.

Ankita hadn't vanished into the night. She had been erased by it.

Every time he opened his mouth to speak, fear sealed it shut… fear of breaking the family apart, fear of confirming the unthinkable.

And so the silence grew roots.

It had been twenty-four years since their little sister vanished. 

Ankita had been six years old. Wild and restless. Always running around barefoot in the courtyard. That late summer evening, Naina had called for her because it was time for bed. She had not answered. 

Naina called out again, knowing that this time she would get a response. 

At first, they laughed, thinking she was hiding or playing a prank. They searched the bedrooms, the kitchen, the front yard, and the courtyard. They searched the neighbors' gardens, the empty lanes. But fear and panic struck when her slippers were found near the well, damp with mud. 

Their mother screamed until her voice broke. The police arrived, and sniffer dogs were deployed. Reports were filed, and interrogations were conducted among the family and neighbors.

But nobody was found.

No note. 

No answers. 

No clues. 

She was just gone. 

Now, in the present, Naina opened a trunk and froze. Inside lay a small tin box. She lifted it gently, her fingers trembling.

She opened the box to find marbles dulled by time, and a folded page. A child's sketch depicting lopsided houses, two stick figures holding hands, and a third, smaller one trailing behind. At the bottom, crooked letters spelled 'Ankita'.

Naina pressed the paper to her chest. "He kept this," she whispered. "After all these years, Papa kept this."

Rohan's stomach twisted. To Naina, the box meant love, remembrance. But to him, it felt like proof that his father had carried guilt, not grief.

"You know… I've always wanted to ask you something, but I've always held back," Naina's eyes were sharp. "You were the last to see Papa that night. I know there's more to the story. There has to be."

Rohan swallowed hard. The truth clawed at his throat. He saw again the shadow by the well, the muffled cry, the silence that followed. He wanted to speak of it. He wanted to free himself.

But he looked at his sister, her face lined with years of unanswered questions, and the words died on his tongue.

"We don't talk about it anymore," he said flatly.

Evening bled into night. They stepped outside together, standing in the courtyard. The old mango tree loomed, its branches gnarled, its roots breaking through the soil. Years ago, police dogs had scratched at the ground beneath it, but nothing was found.

The air was thick with the smell of mud. Rohan's gaze was fixed on the spot for a moment. Just for a moment. He thought he saw a shape crouched in the shadows. Small. Waiting. Watching.

He blinked, and the ground was bare.

Beside him, Naina whispered, "Sometimes I still hear her. At night. Calling my name."

Rohan closed his eyes. The truth pressed against his chest, begging to be spoken. But as always, silence won.

When they left, Naina turned the key in the lock. The click echoed through the courtyard, sharp, final, just like the crack of wood in a funeral pyre.

And inside the house, the shadows thickened, guarding the secret of the child who had never come home.