Siddharth hesitates before the entrance, his modern city clothes at odds with the ancient decay around him. The flashlight flickers in his grip, casting jittery beams across veiled furniture and peeling portraits. Beside him, Ishani clings tightly to his shirt, her eyes wide and unblinking as she surveys the ghostly foyer. "Papa, why do the walls whisper?" "It’s just the wind, Ishani. Let’s get this over with,"

Ishani stands transfixed, her gaze locked on the doll’s tattered red lehenga and pale, weathered leather face. A shiver ripples down Siddharth's spine, though he forces a dismissive scoff. Dust motes swirl in the stale air, and the silence feels heavy, expectant. "Look, Papa. She was waiting for us," "It’s just an antique, Ishani. Don't touch it,"

Sleep evades Siddharth, who paces the hallway outside their room, the floorboards groaning beneath his steps. Ishani sits upright in bed, murmuring softly to the darkness. The oppressive air grows colder, and the ancestral portraits seem to lean in, their faded faces twisted in silent warning. "Ishani, who are you talking to?" "She says she’s lonely. She wants to play,"

Siddharth returns to the doll, intent on locking it away, but finds Ishani standing before it, her fingers hovering just above its leather cheek. The air hums with static, and the walls seem to pulse with a heartbeat that isn’t his own. "She’s scared, Papa. She doesn’t want to be alone again," "Ishani, step away from the doll. Now,"

Ishani[/@ch_2] forward, her steps eerily sure.] Siddharth chases after her, the passage closing in with suffocating claustrophobia. The drawings depict a little girl, always beside the doll, her expressions growing darker with each image. A chill realization settles over him as Ishani begins to hum a lullaby he’s never taught her. "Who taught you that song?" "She did, Papa. She remembers everything,"

Siddharth kneels before Ishani, desperation cracking his voice. The doll’s eyes glow, filling the room with a suffocating pressure. The nursery feels both ancient and immediate, the weight of generations pressing down. "Ishani, you have to let her go. She’s not real—she’s only a memory," "But memories don’t leave, Papa. They wait for someone to remember,"

Siddharth carries Ishani out of the nursery, her grip on his shirt finally loosening. Behind them, the ancestral home seems to exhale, its secrets retreating into the shadows. The silence is no longer expectant, but resigned, holding its breath until the next visitor. "Will she wait for us again, Papa?" "Let’s hope she finds peace,"