Murree's winter of 1998 was unusually cold, with snow covering the thin roads and softly rustling past colonial bungalows' old wooden windows. In one such rambling house, resided Arman—a budding writer renting a remote cottage to complete his first novel. Romantic as he was, Arman felt love should be fated, not coerced. Little did he know that fate had something eerie and lovely in store.
The cottage was old, handed down through the generations. It was known locally as The Lover's House—a name which intrigued Arman. The local grocer once said, "This house has experienced love so profound, it left a mark on its walls."
But Arman doubted it.
It was his third evening in the house that he heard it—soft humming behind the wall close to his bed. Not ghostly or mechanical. Just… so human. A girl's voice, melancholic but lovely. He went still.
The second night, the humming came back—along with soft whispers. Whenever he crept closer to the wall, the voice disappeared, as if moving away from him.Obsession grew out of curiosity.
One morning, Arman visited the local library and asked the elderly librarian, “Has anyone ever died in the house on Upper Ridge Road?”
The librarian looked up sharply. “You’re in the Kaifi Cottage?”
“Yes.”
The man took a deep breath, lowering his voice. "In 1954, there was a girl named Noor living there with her father, who was a retired colonel. She was allegedly in love with a local boy, Ayaz. They secretly met up. One evening, she disappeared. No body, no note. Only Ayaz said she had promised to elope—but never turned up."
"What became of Ayaz?"
"Vanished two weeks later. Some say he was abducted. Some say he left. Ever since, the house has been… strange."
That evening, Arman couldn't sleep. He sat beside the wall and whispered, "Who are you?"
No response.
"Are you Noor?"
And then, barely audible: "You can hear me…"
Arman's heart ceased to beat.
He didn't sleep. In subsequent nights, he communicated with the voice. She introduced herself as Noor. Her narrative came out in pieces. "They locked me in here… I waited for Ayaz… I sang to keep hope alive."
"Where are you?" Arman asked.
"Trapped… behind the wall."
Madness. That's what it should have been. But Arman was not afraid. He was attracted to her. Her pain. Her poetry. Her yearning. Each word she said drew him further into her realm.
One morning, Arman saw the wood panelling on the wall was askew. With shaky hands, he tugged on one. Dust erupted. Behind it—another layer. And behind that—an ancient, empty compartment. A stack of disintegrating papers inside.
Love letters. From Noor to Ayaz.
Each letter was full of desperation, hope, and at last… submission.
"I stood beneath the pine tree until the sun came up, Noor. I'll continue standing until time shatters."
"I knocked. They told me you were gone. I don't trust them."
"If this letter finds its way to you… know that I loved you alone."
But none of the letters were ever opened.
They had never found her.
Arman cried. He couldn't help but think—what if love such as this had perished because of cruelty and deception?
That evening, he accosted Noor.
"They deceived you. Ayaz didn't depart. He searched for you. He sent you letters!"
Silence.
Then, a whisper: "I knew… my father said he left. But my heart—"
A sob.
"I was not permitted outside. I sang so Ayaz could hear that I remained. He never heard me…"
Arman inquired, "Do you ever know where you are now?"
"I never left that room."
The following morning, Arman hired a carpenter. The back wall had never been opened. When they opened it, behind the thick wooden boards was a secret storage room.
And inside, was an old trunk and a picture of a girl in a white shawl—Noor.
The trunk contained her scarf, jewelry, and… a diary.
The last entry read:
"They told me Ayaz left me. But I have him near. I will continue writing, and when one day these walls collapse, perhaps my truth will be told."
Arman couldn't account for the fixation, but he knew he needed to return Noor's story to her. He took her letters, her journal, and started writing his novel again—this time, Whispers Behind the Wall.
His book came out in a year. A story of star-crossed love, betrayal, and unending hope. It captured hearts and awards.
But that is not the end of the story.
Months after, during a book reading in Lahore, a woman in her seventies accosted him. Her eyes brimmed over as she presented a fragile envelope.
This belonged to my brother," she told him. "His name was Ayaz. He passed away last year. He made me swear that if ever I heard Noor's name again… I'd bring this back."
A gold ring was inside. Inscribed with the word: Noor.
Arman was petrified.
"He never got married," she whispered. "Told his heart was stolen by a girl behind a wall."
Arman went to the cottage a final time.
That night, the snow fell silently. He sat by the now-exposed wall, ring in hand.
He whispered, “He never forgot you, Noor.”
Silence.
Then—one last time—he heard her voice: “And now… I’m free.”
The air grew still. Peaceful.
From that night on, the house never whispered again.
But Arman kept the ring by his desk, forever reminded that some love stories don’t end with death—they just wait… to be heard.
But Arman doubted it.
It was his third evening in the house that he heard it—soft humming behind the wall close to his bed. Not ghostly or mechanical. Just… so human. A girl's voice, melancholic but lovely. He went still.
The second night, the humming came back—along with soft whispers. Whenever he crept closer to the wall, the voice disappeared, as if moving away from him.Obsession grew out of curiosity.
One morning, Arman visited the local library and asked the elderly librarian, “Has anyone ever died in the house on Upper Ridge Road?”
The librarian looked up sharply. “You’re in the Kaifi Cottage?”
“Yes.”
The man took a deep breath, lowering his voice. "In 1954, there was a girl named Noor living there with her father, who was a retired colonel. She was allegedly in love with a local boy, Ayaz. They secretly met up. One evening, she disappeared. No body, no note. Only Ayaz said she had promised to elope—but never turned up."
"What became of Ayaz?"
"Vanished two weeks later. Some say he was abducted. Some say he left. Ever since, the house has been… strange."
That evening, Arman couldn't sleep. He sat beside the wall and whispered, "Who are you?"
No response.
"Are you Noor?"
And then, barely audible: "You can hear me…"
Arman's heart ceased to beat.
He didn't sleep. In subsequent nights, he communicated with the voice. She introduced herself as Noor. Her narrative came out in pieces. "They locked me in here… I waited for Ayaz… I sang to keep hope alive."
"Where are you?" Arman asked.
"Trapped… behind the wall."
Madness. That's what it should have been. But Arman was not afraid. He was attracted to her. Her pain. Her poetry. Her yearning. Each word she said drew him further into her realm.
One morning, Arman saw the wood panelling on the wall was askew. With shaky hands, he tugged on one. Dust erupted. Behind it—another layer. And behind that—an ancient, empty compartment. A stack of disintegrating papers inside.
Love letters. From Noor to Ayaz.
Each letter was full of desperation, hope, and at last… submission.
"I stood beneath the pine tree until the sun came up, Noor. I'll continue standing until time shatters."
"I knocked. They told me you were gone. I don't trust them."
"If this letter finds its way to you… know that I loved you alone."
But none of the letters were ever opened.
They had never found her.
Arman cried. He couldn't help but think—what if love such as this had perished because of cruelty and deception?
That evening, he accosted Noor.
"They deceived you. Ayaz didn't depart. He searched for you. He sent you letters!"
Silence.
Then, a whisper: "I knew… my father said he left. But my heart—"
A sob.
"I was not permitted outside. I sang so Ayaz could hear that I remained. He never heard me…"
Arman inquired, "Do you ever know where you are now?"
"I never left that room."
The following morning, Arman hired a carpenter. The back wall had never been opened. When they opened it, behind the thick wooden boards was a secret storage room.
And inside, was an old trunk and a picture of a girl in a white shawl—Noor.
The trunk contained her scarf, jewelry, and… a diary.
The last entry read:
"They told me Ayaz left me. But I have him near. I will continue writing, and when one day these walls collapse, perhaps my truth will be told."
Arman couldn't account for the fixation, but he knew he needed to return Noor's story to her. He took her letters, her journal, and started writing his novel again—this time, Whispers Behind the Wall.
His book came out in a year. A story of star-crossed love, betrayal, and unending hope. It captured hearts and awards.
But that is not the end of the story.
Months after, during a book reading in Lahore, a woman in her seventies accosted him. Her eyes brimmed over as she presented a fragile envelope.
This belonged to my brother," she told him. "His name was Ayaz. He passed away last year. He made me swear that if ever I heard Noor's name again… I'd bring this back."
A gold ring was inside. Inscribed with the word: Noor.
Arman was petrified.
"He never got married," she whispered. "Told his heart was stolen by a girl behind a wall."
Arman went to the cottage a final time.
That night, the snow fell silently. He sat by the now-exposed wall, ring in hand.
He whispered, “He never forgot you, Noor.”
Silence.
Then—one last time—he heard her voice: “And now… I’m free.”
The air grew still. Peaceful.
From that night on, the house never whispered again.
But Arman kept the ring by his desk, forever reminded that some love stories don’t end with death—they just wait… to be heard.
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