The ad made no sense.
"Large house for rent. Cheap. Immediate occupancy."
In a city where even cupboards cost a fortune, a full two-storey house for half price felt illegal.
Ayaan stared at the phone.
"Either it's haunted," he said, "or the owner lives inside the walls."
Zoya snorted while packing plates.
"Relax. Worst case, we die. Best case, we save money."
Imran lifted a box.
"Comforting words from my future ghost roommate."
They moved just before Maghrib. The house stood at the edge of Old Noorabad, squeezed between broken shops and silent trees. Paint peeled like old skin. Windows stared too long.
Ammi stepped out of the car slowly.
"This place…" she murmured, adjusting her dupatta, "it listens too much."
Zoya blinked.
"What does that even mean, Ammi? It has ears?"
Ammi didn't smile.
Inside, the house smelled cold — not dusty, but unused. Like breath held for years.
When Ayaan carried in the Qur'an, the hallway light flickered.
Imran froze.
"Why did the bulb react to religion?"
Zoya laughed nervously.
"Even electricity respects Islam."
But the flicker didn't stop.
Tap.
Pause.
Tap-tap.
From upstairs.
No one was there yet.
At night, after Isha, they prayed together in the living room.
Ayaan recited softly:
"Bismillahir Rahmanir Raheem…"
Halfway through, another voice joined him.
Perfectly matching.
From the staircase.
Imran whispered,
"…Ayaan?"
Ayaan's lips stopped.
But the recitation continued.
Without him.