Riya Shah, a young journalist drawn by rumors of hauntings, hesitates at the ornate iron gate. Her camera dangles from her neck, and her notebook is clutched tightly in her palm. The air is heavy with anticipation, the sweet scent of frangipani barely masking a hint of something rotten.
"Everyone in Navsari says this place is cursed after sunset. But tonight, the truth will finally come to light," she whispers to herself, steeling her nerves before stepping inside.
The silence is oppressive, broken only by the crunch of gravel beneath her feet. The statues of ancient Parsi guardians stand watchful, eyes blank but somehow accusatory. Riya shivers as a cold wind brushes past, lifting the edge of her scarf.
"Is someone there?" Her voice trembles, echoing off the stone, unanswered except for a sudden rustle in the bushes.
Suddenly, she notices wilted garlands strung between pillars, their flowers blackened as if charred by invisible flames. A faint, chilling chant drifts through the air, neither wind nor animal, but something older. The temperature drops, and a metallic tang fills her mouth.
"This can’t just be superstition," Riya murmurs, clutching her notebook closer as she records every detail, heart pounding.
The apparition glides soundlessly toward Riya, her sari whispering against the cold stone. The air grows thick, pressing against Riya’s chest as if the garden itself resists her presence. An ancient, sorrowful voice echoes, not quite from the apparition’s lips but from the very roots of the garden:
The Lady in White (spirit of the garden’s protector)
"Why do you trespass here when the sun has abandoned us? The garden remembers every betrayal, every broken promise…"
"We were guardians, not monsters. But when the sacred fire was extinguished, our souls became bound to this earth. Only the truth can set us free,"
Riya’s fear is replaced by empathy as she scribbles furiously, promising to share their story. Tears mix with the dew on her cheeks, the weight of centuries pressing down on her.
She looks back one last time; the garden now seems peaceful, almost inviting in the early morning glow. In her notebook, the final words are clear: "The Parsi Garden’s curse is not vengeance, but a longing to be remembered."
"I will tell the world," she vows, her voice steady, as the garden slips back into its ancient, watchful silence.
