The first time Mihir heard his mother's voice, he thought it was memory.
It came to him while he sat alone in the inner courtyard, dusk thickening around the house like coagulating blood. The oil lamps had been lit, their flames wavering despite the absence of wind. Somewhere in the distance, a conch shell blew for evening prayers—sandhya shankh, long and mournful.
Mihir.
The voice was soft. Familiar. Worn smooth by years of use.
His spine went rigid.
He did not turn.
Memory, he told himself. Grief had a way of resurfacing when the mind was exhausted, when fear softened the boundaries between past and present. His mother had died when he was fifteen—heart failure, sudden, clean. No unfinished business.
Mihir, shona.
The endearment hollowed him out.
He stood slowly, breath shallow. The courtyard felt wrong—too open, shadows pooling where walls should have held them back. The banyan loomed beyond the far gate, its roots half-visible in the failing light, thick as thighs, pulsing faintly.
"Ma?" he whispered before he could stop himself.
The voice came again, closer now.
You never came back for me.
Mihir's throat closed. "That's not fair," he said hoarsely. "I was a child."
A faint rustle came from the direction of the forest. Leaves brushing together in a sound that was almost laughter.
You left me alone.
His feet began moving without conscious command.
He crossed the courtyard, passed the threshold Arjun had warned him about, the one marked faintly with vermilion handprints. His pulse thundered, breath syncing to that deep, slow rhythm he now recognized with dread.
The banyan inhaled.
"Mihir."
This time, the voice came from behind the tree.
From the roots.
He stepped onto the forest path barefoot, stones biting into his soles, but he barely felt it. The air grew cooler with every step, heavier, carrying the scent of damp earth and ash. Fireflies flickered weakly between branches, their light dying quickly, as if swallowed.
"Ma, where are you?" he called.
The roots shifted.
Something pale gleamed between them—fabric. The edge of a sari.
Mihir, come closer. I can't see you.
Tears blurred his vision. His chest ached with a pressure that felt like prayer gone wrong.
"I'm here," he said. "I'm here now."
A hand brushed his ankle.
Cold.
He gasped—and that was when fingers clamped around his wrist with bruising force.
"No."
Arjun's voice tore through the forest like a blade.
Mihir was yanked backward so hard he stumbled, nearly falling. Arjun hauled him against his chest, one arm locked tight around his waist, the other gripping his wrist painfully.
"Don't listen," Arjun snarled. "Don't answer."
Mihir struggled, panic and grief surging together. "She's calling me—she's right there—"
"That is not your mother," Arjun said, fury shaking his voice. "Look at me."
Mihir twisted, desperate, trying to see past him.
Arjun tightened his hold.
"I said look at me."
Mihir did.
Arjun's eyes were wrong—too dark, pupils blown wide, something old and violent burning behind them. His control had snapped clean through.
"It uses what you love," Arjun said through clenched teeth. "What you would follow without question."
The voice rose again, no longer gentle.
You let me die.
Mihir cried out.
Arjun dragged him away from the roots, half-carrying him, boots tearing through undergrowth. The forest seemed to resist them—branches snagging, roots rising slightly from the soil as if to trip them.
"Let go of me!" Mihir sobbed. "You don't understand—"
"I understand perfectly," Arjun snapped. "I've heard her voice longer than you've been alive."
That stopped Mihir cold.
They broke through the tree line into the clearing before the house. Arjun shoved the gate open with one hand and slammed it shut behind them, driving a rusted iron rod into place with a practiced motion.
The banyan exhaled—angry now.
Mihir collapsed against the gate, shaking violently. Arjun was still holding him, chest heaving, grip unyielding.
"Did it sound like her?" Mihir whispered brokenly.
Arjun did not answer immediately.
"Yes," he said finally. "Perfectly."
Mihir covered his face with his hands. "It knew things. Things only she—"
"It knows blood," Arjun said. "And blood remembers."
Arjun's hand slid from Mihir's wrist to his jaw, forcing his face up—not gently, but carefully, like handling something fragile under strain.
"You cannot follow voices after dusk," Arjun said. "Not ever."
Mihir's eyes burned. "Then why does it sound like her?"
Arjun's thumb brushed away a tear without thinking.
"Because it wants you broken enough to step willingly into its mouth."
The intimacy of the gesture hit Mihir harder than the violence had. His breath stuttered. He hated that part of him leaned into the touch before he caught himself.
"You hurt me," Mihir said quietly.
Arjun froze.
Slowly, he withdrew his hand.
"Yes," he said. "And I would do it again."
Silence fell, thick and heavy.
Mihir laughed weakly. "That's… not comforting."
Arjun's gaze softened just slightly. "It's honest."
From inside the house came a faint creak—floorboards shifting as if someone had moved. Or something had woken.
Arjun stepped closer again, lowering his voice.
"It will try different voices next," he said. "Your father. Your grandfather. Anyone whose absence still aches."
Mihir's stomach twisted. "How do you know?"
Arjun's mouth curved, bitter.
"Because it has tried them all on me."
The banyan rustled behind the gate, roots settling back into the earth with reluctant patience.
Mihir leaned his forehead briefly against Arjun's chest, exhaustion overtaking fear. He didn't pull away when Arjun's arm came around him again—this time steadier, protective in a way that felt dangerous to need.
"Stay with me tonight," Mihir whispered.
Arjun's breath caught.
"I already am," he replied.
And deep in the forest, something listened—and learned.