By mid-February, the snow had thinned out. The hills looked bare now, streaked with gray and brown, and the roads had turned back to slush. Shimla had that half-awake feeling the kind you get after a long sleep but before you’re ready to move.
Rayan and I still met, but something in our rhythm had shifted. It wasn’t anything big. Just smaller pauses. Slower replies.
He’d call sometimes, not to talk, just to ask where I was. “You left the university late today,” he’d say, even before I told him. The first time, I brushed it off. By the third, I started wondering how he knew.
When I asked, he said, “You always take the same route. I passed by.”
That sounded harmless enough. Except, most days, I didn’t see his car.
One evening, I was walking home from class when my phone buzzed. Cold out. You didn’t wear the brown scarf, the message read.
I looked around before replying. How do you know that?
No answer for five minutes. Then: Guess I got lucky.
I didn’t text back.
The next day, Neel my colleague from Delhi called. “How’s Shimla treating you?” he asked.
“Good,” I said automatically.
“Good as in peaceful, or good as in you’re pretending it is?”
I laughed. “Peaceful enough.”
He paused. “You sound distracted. You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Just tired.”
We talked a bit more, but my mind was somewhere else. I hadn’t mentioned Rayan to him, and I wasn’t sure why.
That evening, I decided to visit the mansion unannounced. I told myself it was just curiosity, but deep down, it was something closer to suspicion.
When I arrived, the gate was open but the place was quiet. I called out his name no answer. I walked in anyway.
The living room lights were on. A faint hum played in the background same uneven rhythm, the one he said was the heater.
I followed the sound down the corridor. It led to a half-open door near the study.
Inside, Rayan sat at his desk, headphones on, eyes closed. The sound wasn’t the heater this time. It was the same humming I’d heard before.
When he noticed me, he paused the recording and pulled the headphones down. “You should’ve called,” he said, not angry, just calm.
“I was nearby,” I said. “Didn’t think I needed an invitation.”
He smiled faintly. “You never do.”
“What were you listening to?”
He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then said, “Just an old recording. Meher’s voice.”
He pressed play before I could respond. The room filled with a soft hum, a woman’s voice in the background—low, wordless.
Something about it made my stomach twist. It wasn’t the sound itself it was how familiar it felt.
I realized then why it had always bothered me. It wasn’t just that the tone was similar to mine. It was the exact same pitch. The same pauses. Even the way she breathed between notes.
I stood there, listening. My own voice, but not mine.
When it stopped, Rayan said quietly, “She used to sing when she painted. You remind me of that.”
“That’s not something people usually say,” I replied.
He tilted his head. “You don’t like being compared to her?”
“I don’t like feeling like someone else’s echo.”
His smile faded. “You’re not. You’re the opposite.”
“Then why does everything you say make me feel like I’ve been here before?”
He looked at me for a long time. “Maybe that’s not a bad thing.”
I didn’t answer.
That night, back in my room, I noticed something on my bedside table a folded sheet of paper I didn’t remember leaving there. It was the card he’d given me when we first met. Khanna & Co. – Restoration Specialist.
Only now, below the printed name, there was handwriting. A small, neat line in blue ink:
“You looked at the mural longer today. That means you’re starting to see it.”
No signature.
I stared at it for a long time, trying to convince myself I’d brought it there, that maybe I’d just forgotten.
But I hadn’t taken that card out since the day he gave it to me.
For the first time since coming to Shimla, I locked my door that night.
Not because I was afraid.
Because I didn’t know if I should be.
Leave a Reply