She must have been around eight.
The summer air in Vardha was warm and sweet, and Aarya ran barefoot across the garden, her laughter echoing like bells. The willow tree stood like a giant storybook, its branches hanging low enough to touch her hair.
She loved it here.
She would sit beneath it for hours — weaving fallen strands of its leaves together.
"Look, Dadi!" she giggled once, holding up a leaf crown. "I'm the princess of the willow!"
Her grandmother's face had changed in an instant.
The bowl she held slipped from her hands and shattered on the stone.
Aarya remembered the sound.
Sharp. Breaking. Final.
In the next heartbeat, Dadi was running — faster than Aarya had ever seen her move — grabbing her by the arms.
"NEVER!" she hissed, voice trembling. "Never call yourself that. Never play here after sunset."
Aarya's eyes welled with confusion.
"Why? It's just a tree…"
Dadi cupped her face, her hands cold and shaking.
"It is not the tree you should fear," she whispered, glancing over her shoulder.
"It is the woman who waits beneath it."
Aarya didn't understand.
Not then.
But that night, she woke to the sound of crying.
Soft. Endless. Coming from the garden.
She tiptoed to the window.
And saw her leaf crown —
placed gently
at the base of the willow tree.
No wind.
No footsteps.
No one outside.
Just the willow.
And the woman in white, standing beneath it with her back turned.
Aarya blinked once — and the figure vanished.
She never spoke of it.
Not once.
Not ever.
Until now.