Demon's Physco obsession

Less Like a Ghost

The car had barely come to a halt outside the old mansion on the quiet fringes of Ahmedabad when night had already wrapped the world in its dense, unyielding hush. The house stood broad yet modest—whitewashed walls catching the faint amber of the porch lights, bougainvillaea tumbling over the gate in careless bursts of magenta and pink.

Neelu flew through the front door before the engine even sighed into silence, her happiness crashing against the stillness like a sudden wave.
"Kittu!" she shouted, flinging her arms around Ankita the instant her feet met the gravel. "I'm so sorry—so, so sorry—"

Ankita stood rigid within the hug, arms hanging uselessly, eyes open yet vacant.

Shakuntala's voice sliced through, calm and final.
"Neelu. That's enough."

Neelu stiffened, arms still hovering.

Shakuntala moved forward, resting a steady hand on her daughter's shoulder and easing her back with quiet authority.

"Kittu is worn out. She'll have her own room. Anything you wish to say, anything you wish to show her—save it for tomorrow. Not tonight."

"But Maa—"

"Tomorrow," Shakuntala said again, the syllable soft yet unyielding, velvet over iron.

Neelu's shoulders dropped; she nodded, lip caught between her teeth.

Shakuntala steered Ankita up the broad wooden stairs to the upper floor, past rows of framed black-and-white portraits where ancestors gazed down with grave, timeless eyes. The room she opened was spare to the point of severity: a narrow bed with spotless white linens, a plain wooden wardrobe, a small table, a single chair, and a window giving onto the shadowed garden. No pictures on the walls. No echoes lying in wait.

"Rest," Shakuntala murmured. "Unpack when—or if—you want. No one will bother you."

She brushed Ankita's elbow once, a feather-light touch, then withdrew, shutting the door with a gentle, definitive click.

Ankita stayed rooted where she had been left.

Time blurred.

Then her legs gave way, strings severed. She sank into a tight crouch, arms locked around her shins, forehead pressed hard to her knees. She remained there—curled, motionless, silent—as the house gradually settled into its nighttime breathing.

She did not stir.

All through the dark hours she sat, eyes fixed and wide, as though shutting them would let the final fragile strand of her unravel into nothing.
Three days drifted by like mist.

Trays arrived at steady intervals—plain khichdi, cut fruit, warm milk, soft roti slicked with ghee—and vanished untouched. Water glasses appeared, warmed, cooled, and were taken away. No one pressed. No one begged.

Shakuntala had been clear: set the food down, do not disturb, do not enter unless she calls.
On the fourth morning, instead of a full meal, only a single steel tumbler of nimbu pani waited just inside the threshold.

Ankita's body had begun to rebel in quiet, insistent ways.

The room swayed when she tried to focus. Her tongue felt swollen, alien. Each breath scraped her raw throat. A steady throb pulsed behind her eyes.

For the first time in days, something besides guilt flickered in the empty cavity of her chest.

Discomfort.

Raw, bodily, impossible to ignore.

Her cracked, shaking fingers reached out. They found the cool metal. She pulled the glass nearer, sloshing water in dark patches across the floor. Slowly, laboriously, she raised it to her mouth.
A sip.