The night was calm, wrapped in the faint crackle of firewood and the rhythmic croaking of crickets outside.
Inside a dimly lit room, an old man sat on a wooden chair, his silver hair glowing in the firelight. Across from him sat a little boy—six years old, wide-eyed, clutching a pillow like a shield.
The old man's voice was slow, deep, and heavy with memory.
"And thus," he said, "a pact was formed between humans and spirits. And from that day onward... they never came to the surface again."
The boy, Paras, blinked up at him.
"Grandpa… did that really happen?"
A faint smile crossed the old man's face, the kind that carried both warmth and warning.
"It's not just a story, child," he said softly. "It's a legend. Who knows whether it is true or not?"
The fire crackled. Outside, thunder grumbled in the distance—as if the night itself remembered the tale.
Ten years later — 2017.
The echoes of that story were long forgotten.
Paras leaned against the wall outside his school, his uniform half-tucked, his grin sharp.
Deva and Vardh stood beside him, chatting about their next fight with the seniors.
"We'll hit them at lunch break," Deva said.
"Or before that," Paras replied, smirking.
Before their laughter could rise, a voice cut through.
"All day you talk about fighting! At least try to behave like the heir of the Bais clan!"
A girl marched up, pinching Paras's ear.
He groaned, hands up.
"Okay, okay! I won't fight today—just let me go!"
She smiled, teasing.
"That's my good boy."
As she walked away, Deva nudged him.
"Why's she always after you, huh?"
Paras stared for a moment, then shrugged.
"Who knows… maybe because her parents died when she was a kid. Grandpa took her in. We grew up together."
The bell rang.
The bell rang, echoing through the hallways like a signal for freedom.
Students spilled out into the courtyard, voices bouncing off the walls. Laughter, chatter, and the clatter of shoes filled the air. Paras stretched lazily against the wall, squinting at the bright afternoon sun.
"Finally done for the day," he muttered.
"You say that every single day," Mira said, tugging at his sleeve with a half-smile.
Deva and Vardh waved from a distance, but Mira shot them a look sharp enough to cut steel.
"You two can survive one day without picking a fight?" she snapped.
"Trying isn't the same as not fighting, you know," Paras grinned.
Their playful banter followed them out the school gates as they made their way home. Today was a special day — a quiet weight hung in the air. Paras's mother was waiting at the grand entrance of their home, her eyes soft but tinged with sorrow.
"You're late," she said gently. "Today is your grandfather's memorial."
Paras bowed his head slightly. His grandfather — the man who had resurrected the once-vanished Bais clan — had passed away in 2011. Though his father had never wanted to become heir, he managed the family business carefully. Now, it was Paras's turn. And though the house looked like a classical castle, filled with maids and butlers at every turn, not everyone wanted him to succeed. Ananth, his father's stern assistant, disapproved of Paras's rowdy ways and had made it clear he doubted the boy's potential.
"I'll be careful from next time, Ma," Paras said. "I promise."
In the garden, sunlight slanted through the leaves, catching on the marble statue of his grandfather. Flowers were laid around its base, petals scattered like soft reminders of a great man's legacy. Paras, Mira, and his friends bowed their heads, murmuring prayers for the future.
As he straightened, a flicker beneath the ancient tree caught his eye. A man — tall, commanding, dressed in a black coat like his grandfather used to wear — stood there, radiating the same authority Paras had only seen in old photographs.
Blink. Gone.
"Paras?" Mira's voice pulled him back.
"Nothing… I thought I saw something," he replied, brushing it off with a nervous grin.
The day passed uneventfully after that.
Classes dragged on, Mira scolded him twice, Deva made his usual bad jokes. The normal rhythm of life, mundane yet comforting.
After school, under the blazing sun, Paras and his friends slipped silently past Mira's watchful gaze, heading toward a small, bustling restaurant at the corner of the street. Plates clattered, voices hummed, and for a while, the world felt ordinary.
"You sure she won't find out?" Vardh whispered.
"Let her try," Paras said with a smirk. "I'll just act innocent."
Returning home along sunlit streets, laughter fading, they turned into a narrow alley. Their steps slowed. Shadows stretched unnaturally.
A group of seniors blocked their path, faces twisted with malice.
"Well, look who's wandering with friends," one sneered. "It was you chicks that our people are afraid of ,huh?."
Paras clenched his fists, shoulders taut.
"Guess you need a lesson," he muttered.
The fight erupted. Fists flew, boots connected, and by the time the dust settled, Paras, Deva, and Vardh stood victorious. The seniors groaned on the ground, humiliated.
Deva wiped his nose, chuckling.
"Never mess with us again."
Paras grinned, adrenaline still thrumming through him.
"You wouldn't last five seconds," he said, tossing a mocking glance at the groaning seniors.
As they left the alley, Paras couldn't shake the feeling that someone—or something—had been watching. Something that recognized him, and waited.
The sun still burned high when Paras reached home, sweat clinging to his collar.
The Bais mansion looked calm as ever—white stone walls, carved balconies, and fountains glinting like mirrors. Yet as he walked through the gates, the same chill from the alley brushed his spine.
Inside, Mira was already waiting in the living room, arms crossed.
"You fought again, didn't you?"
"Define 'fight,'" Paras said, dropping onto the couch.
She glared.
"You can't keep doing this, Paras. Your father's already under pressure—Ananth won't stop talking about your 'behavior.'"
At the mention of that name, Paras's expression hardened.
Ananth, his father's manager, had the politeness of a snake. Always watching, always judging. He appeared in the doorway as if summoned, a faint smile playing at his lips.
"Master Paras," he said smoothly, "the world won't forgive your childish habits once you take the seat your grandfather left behind."
Paras forced a grin.
"Good thing I'm not in a hurry to sit there, then."
Ananth's eyes flickered with something darker.
"Some legacies aren't given, boy. They're taken."
He turned sharply and disappeared down the hall.
Mira sighed.
"You could at least pretend to be civil."
"He started it."
"You always say that."
They both laughed, tension melting for a moment. But behind the laughter, Paras kept replaying that glimpse under the tree—the man who looked like his grandfather. The image wouldn't leave his mind.
Later that afternoon, his father returned from the main office. A quiet man, tall and sharp-featured, he carried himself with a calm that felt heavier than silence.
"How was school?" he asked over dinner.
"Normal," Paras said quickly.
His father studied him for a moment, then nodded.
"Tomorrow morning, we'll visit the shrine near the estate. It's where your grandfather's ashes were buried. Your mother wants to offer new flowers."
"Sure," Paras replied.
He didn't say it out loud, but part of him wanted to go. Maybe standing there would help him understand why the old man's shadow still seemed to linger.
That night, the mansion was quiet. Even the air-conditioners hummed softly, polite not to disturb the portraits lining the hallway. Paras couldn't sleep. The moonlight slipped through the curtains, silvering his desk, his books, the framed photograph of his grandfather.
The old man's smile in that photo—calm, proud, secretive—felt different tonight. Alive.
Paras sat up.
A faint sound echoed from outside. Not loud, but rhythmic—like footsteps crunching on gravel.
He walked to the balcony, the marble floor cool beneath his feet. The garden below glowed faintly under moonlight. The statue of his grandfather stood there, still and solemn.
And yet…
there was movement behind it. A flicker of white. A shadow shifting against the light.
Paras blinked hard. Nothing.
Only the whisper of leaves.
"You need sleep," he muttered to himself, shutting the door.
But even as he turned away, a voice—soft, almost kind—slid into the back of his mind.
"Paras…"
He froze.
Heart pounding, he looked around his room. Empty. Only the ticking of his clock.
"...Grandpa?" he whispered.
No answer.
Just silence—and the faint rustle of the peepal tree outside, swaying as if something invisible had brushed against it.
Morning came golden and calm, as if the night hadn't happened. Birds perched on the railing, maids bustled through the halls. Mira greeted him with a yawn and toast in hand.
"You look like you didn't sleep."
"Couldn't," Paras admitted.
"Nightmares again?"
"Something like that."
Before she could press further, his father called from the doorway.
"Paras, Mira—ready? We're leaving for the shrine."
The car rolled down the long gravel path, sunlight flashing between the trees. Paras stared out the window, watching the estate disappear behind them.
For a moment, in the glass reflection, he thought he saw another face sitting beside him—an old man's face, smiling faintly.
He turned fast.
Nothing.
But the voice from the night whispered again, distant yet unmistakable—
"Paras…"
Paras's pulse quickened.
He didn't know what it meant.
But deep down, something told him the legend his grandfather once told wasn't finished.
It was only beginning.
The road to the shrine curled like a snake through the hills. Clouds had gathered without warning, heavy and dark, swallowing the afternoon sun. By the time Paras, his father, and Mira reached the temple gate, the sky had turned the color of steel.
Wind swept through the old trees, carrying the smell of wet earth and incense.
The shrine wasn't grand—just a small stone structure surrounded by moss-covered steps and banyan roots that seemed to crawl over its walls. Yet, for Paras, it always carried a weight far greater than its size.
His grandfather's ashes were buried just beneath that shrine.
They stepped out of the car. Raindrops began to fall, light at first, tapping against the umbrella Mira opened over them.
"It's going to pour soon," she said softly.
"It's fine," Paras's father replied. "We won't take long."
Inside the shrine, the priest was already preparing the incense sticks. The smell of sandalwood filled the air. Paras knelt before the engraved plaque bearing his grandfather's name:
Arjun Bais — 1943–2011.
The man who rebuilt the clan's legacy. The man who raised him on stories of courage, loyalty… and spirits.
Paras placed a garland of marigolds at the base and closed his eyes.
He wanted to pray.
He wanted to speak.
But all that came to his mind was that whisper from last night.
"Paras…"
His fingers trembled slightly. He looked around, but nothing was there—only the flickering flame of the diya and Mira standing silently behind him, her palms folded.
The wind howled outside.
Then, in that silence between gusts, Paras heard it again.
Not loud. Not clear.
But it was there.
A voice. Familiar. Warm. Close.
"You came…"
His eyes snapped open.
"Did you hear that?" he asked Mira.
She blinked. "Hear what?"
"Someone just said something."
"No one said anything, Paras. Are you okay?"
He nodded quickly. "Yeah… yeah, just—never mind."
But his heart was racing. The voice had been right next to his ear, softer than the rain but sharp enough to make him cold.
He looked toward the banyan tree outside the shrine again. The roots twisted down like veins. And just for an instant—he saw it.
A shadow.
Human-shaped.
Standing under the tree, still as stone, watching him.
Paras stepped back instinctively. His foot hit the metal plate of the shrine with a loud clang. The sound startled Mira and his father.
"What's wrong?" his father asked, turning.
Paras looked again. The shadow was gone.
"Nothing," he lied. "I… slipped."
His father studied him for a moment, then turned back to the priest. The prayers continued, the rhythmic chants rising with the thunder. Mira leaned closer and whispered:
"You're pale as chalk. What did you see?"
Paras shook his head.
"Probably nothing. Just my mind playing games."
But Mira didn't look convinced.
Neither was he.
The rain came down harder as they made their way back to the car. Mud clung to their shoes; thunder rolled through the valley. Paras glanced out of the window one last time at the shrine.
And there — under the banyan tree — he saw something glint in the mud.
A ring.
A golden ring, half-buried.
He felt a strange pull, a tug deep in his chest.
Before he could think, he stepped out again.
"Paras!" Mira shouted. "What are you doing?"
He crouched near the tree and picked up the ring. It was old, worn smooth by time — but inside the band, faint letters were still visible.
A.B.
His grandfather's initials.
Thunder cracked overhead. The wind tore through the trees. Paras stared at the ring, heart pounding, water streaming down his face.
And then—
a faint voice, carried on the rain, whispered right beside him again.
"Be prepared…"
Paras froze. Mira grabbed his arm.
"Paras! Let's go!"
He slipped the ring into his pocket and looked back one last time. The banyan tree shuddered in the wind, its roots curling deeper into the earth like something alive.
By the time he got back into the car, his father had already closed the umbrella and was looking straight ahead, silent. For a long time, no one spoke.
The rain blurred the world outside. But Paras could still hear that whisper echoing in his mind—
Be prepared.
He didn't know why, but it felt less like a warning… and more like a prophecy.