Chapter 1: The House Beside the River
In
a neglected corner of a sleepy town stood a house whose windows were shaded
with ivy and blue shutters that had not been opened for years. People would
often whisper about it—a tale of tragedy, they whispered. A tragedy shrouded in
silence. But for Aryan, the house was an enigma waiting to be solved.
He was a city-bred struggling writer who had taken a room facing the derelict house to get away from the din of life. He was not looking for inspiration, but for quiet. Even so, a writer's curse is curiosity, and every evening when the river lapped at the riverbank gently and the wind whispered through the trees, Aryan heard an odd noise in the window of the old house.
A song. Spooky. Eerie. A woman's voice.
It wasn't on a tape. It wasn't the neighbor. The voice only happened at night—and only when the moon was full.
He was a city-bred struggling writer who had taken a room facing the derelict house to get away from the din of life. He was not looking for inspiration, but for quiet. Even so, a writer's curse is curiosity, and every evening when the river lapped at the riverbank gently and the wind whispered through the trees, Aryan heard an odd noise in the window of the old house.
A song. Spooky. Eerie. A woman's voice.
It wasn't on a tape. It wasn't the neighbor. The voice only happened at night—and only when the moon was full.
Chapter 2: The Voice
He
heard it for the first time on his third evening. He sat by his open window,
pen in hand, with thoughts that refused to materialize into words. And then
there was the music—gentle, sad, and lovely. It lasted just a minute, but it
haunted his bones for hours.
The second night, he lay awake to hear it again. This time the song was. sadder. More longing.
He inquired of the local grocer about the house.
Belonged to the Thakurs, used to," the old man replied, paan-chewing. "Had a daughter named Meher. She was going to marry a boy from Delhi. But he did not turn up at the wedding. Heartbreak consumed her. She disappeared after that. Some people say she died in that house. Some say she went to look for him."
"Who does it belong to now?
No one. It's been locked ever since. But…" The old man inched forward. "Some say her spirit never left. They say she still waits. Singing, hoping."
The second night, he lay awake to hear it again. This time the song was. sadder. More longing.
He inquired of the local grocer about the house.
Belonged to the Thakurs, used to," the old man replied, paan-chewing. "Had a daughter named Meher. She was going to marry a boy from Delhi. But he did not turn up at the wedding. Heartbreak consumed her. She disappeared after that. Some people say she died in that house. Some say she went to look for him."
"Who does it belong to now?
No one. It's been locked ever since. But…" The old man inched forward. "Some say her spirit never left. They say she still waits. Singing, hoping."
Chapter 3: The Locked Door
One
evening, unable to stay away, Aryan crossed the road in the moonlight and
approached the old house. The gate creaked open. The garden was in disarray,
wildflowers entwined with weeds, but the scent was sweet.
The front door, though, would not open. Its lock was clogged with rust, unmovable. He looked through a gap in the wooden shutters. Every inch of space inside was veiled with dust, but he could see a piano in the drawing room corner. And a chair facing the window next to it. As if the person had just gotten up from there, waiting.
That evening, he heard the voice once more. But this time, it was not singing merely melody, but words.
"Tum aaye nahi, main roti rahi…"
(You never came, and I kept crying.)
His heart leaped. He knew the words were not any familiar song. It was as if someone was writing a plaint in real-time—for one who never came back.
The front door, though, would not open. Its lock was clogged with rust, unmovable. He looked through a gap in the wooden shutters. Every inch of space inside was veiled with dust, but he could see a piano in the drawing room corner. And a chair facing the window next to it. As if the person had just gotten up from there, waiting.
That evening, he heard the voice once more. But this time, it was not singing merely melody, but words.
"Tum aaye nahi, main roti rahi…"
(You never came, and I kept crying.)
His heart leaped. He knew the words were not any familiar song. It was as if someone was writing a plaint in real-time—for one who never came back.
Chapter 4: The Letter
A
week after that, a package showed up at Aryan's temporary address. No name of
the sender. A yellowed envelope with a sealed letter inside. The ink had seeped
into the paper a bit, but the message was readable:
No name was signed. Just a single pressed rose tucked inside.
Aryan spent hours staring at the words. That evening, he started writing. The melody came back as he wrote. It felt as if she was leading him. Guiding him on where to start.
"To the one who hears me,
If you really listen, then maybe you can tell him I waited.
That I sang every full moon for him.
That I never faulted him.
That love, though unreplied to, has its own language.".
I have no grave, but this house is my shrine.
If you write my story, maybe he'll read it.
Maybe he'll know I forgave him."
No name was signed. Just a single pressed rose tucked inside.
Aryan spent hours staring at the words. That evening, he started writing. The melody came back as he wrote. It felt as if she was leading him. Guiding him on where to start.
Chapter 5: The Diary
Prompted by the letter, Aryan went back to the house in the daytime. This time, something was different. The door was ajar.Inside, the dust danced in the sunlight cutting through shattered blinds. The furniture was unwaveled—left in place. And on the piano was a frayed leather diary.
He opened it. It was Meher Thakur's.
Her posts were full of life. She was a musician, awaiting to run away with Aarav, her Delhi sweetheart. Everything was fixed. But he did not turn up.
In her final post, written on the night she went missing, she had written:
"I don't think he betrayed me. Something stopped him. I know it.
Still, I will sing. For him. If love ever had a voice, let mine be it."
Aryan's eyes brimmed. He knew now—this was the tale he was destined to tell.
Chapter 6: Across the City
After
weeks of investigation and numerous questions, Aryan came across a record of
Aarav. Now an elderly man in his 60s, he resided at a nursing home in Delhi.
Aryan went to bring it. While showing the diary and a recording of the song (which he had made using his phone one night) to Aarav, the man lost it.
"I never left her. I was in an accident going to the station." A car was hit by a truck. I was in a coma for months. By the time I came around… my parents had buried the past. They lied to me and said she had married another guy. I tried to look for her, but no one knew where she went."
Aryan put the letter to hand.
He grasped it between shaking fingers. "She waited…"
He said nothing for many long moments.
And then he breathed, "Take me there."
Aryan went to bring it. While showing the diary and a recording of the song (which he had made using his phone one night) to Aarav, the man lost it.
"I never left her. I was in an accident going to the station." A car was hit by a truck. I was in a coma for months. By the time I came around… my parents had buried the past. They lied to me and said she had married another guy. I tried to look for her, but no one knew where she went."
Aryan put the letter to hand.
He grasped it between shaking fingers. "She waited…"
He said nothing for many long moments.
And then he breathed, "Take me there."
Chapter 7: Full Moon
They
came back to the village on the following full moon. Aryan assisted Aarav to
the bench in front of the old house.
The night breeze was soft. The river glittered silver. Crickets sang.
And then—the melody started.
The same song. But with another voice this time—shaking, old, but firm—joined in.
Aarav was singing.
"Tum aaye nahi, main roti rahi…"
(You never came, and I kept crying…)
Tears streamed down Aryan's eyes. The swing outside the house swung softly. The wind blew, filling the air with rose perfume.
Aarav's eyes were closed, and for an instant—just an instant—he smiled.
The night breeze was soft. The river glittered silver. Crickets sang.
And then—the melody started.
The same song. But with another voice this time—shaking, old, but firm—joined in.
Aarav was singing.
"Tum aaye nahi, main roti rahi…"
(You never came, and I kept crying…)
Tears streamed down Aryan's eyes. The swing outside the house swung softly. The wind blew, filling the air with rose perfume.
Aarav's eyes were closed, and for an instant—just an instant—he smiled.
Chapter 8: The End and the Beginning
Aarav died that night. Peacefully.
Aryan discovered a letter in Aarav's coat pocket:
"If I catch sight of her once more, if only for an instant, I'll know that
love will never die.
Thank you for allowing me one final opportunity to respond to her
summons."
Aryan wrote Meher's tale as a novel. "The Song Beneath the Window"
became a subdued sensation, spoken highly of for its unadorned emotion and
elegiac story.
The house was rebuilt and converted into a memorial area for lost
love—available to anyone who sought closure.
And every full moon, Aryan swears he still hears her voice. But now, it isn't
sad.
It sounds complete.
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