The Love that Haunts °ArShi°

Prologue

Night descended upon the haveli with an oppressive weight. Khushi, unable to sleep, sat on the edge of the bed, a flickering oil lamp casting dancing shadows on the walls. The silence was thick, punctuated only by the rhythmic chirping of crickets outside. She pulled her shawl tighter, a feeble attempt to ward off the chill.

Suddenly, she felt the air grow heavy and the temperature plummeting. The lamp flickered violently, threatening to snuff out. A low whisper, like the rustling of dry leaves, started to weave through the room. It was a voice, close, too close.

"Khushi...!"

For weeks now, she'd felt it – a presence, a breath on her ear, whispers in the silences that clung to the empty rooms. At first, she'd dismissed it as nerves, the weight of her new responsibilities in this sprawling, echoing house. She was alone here, wasn't she?

But the whispers had grown bolder, more insistent. They'd started as unintelligible murmurs, a sense of a voice trying to reach her from a dimension she couldn't quite grasp. Then, she started hearing it- her name.

She had tried everything to rationalize her experiences. Sleep deprivation? The old mansion's quirks? Perhaps even a wild, overly active imagination? Yet, none of it quite fit the intensity of the feeling, the unwavering sense that someone, something, wanted her attention. Tonight, however, something felt different. 

Earlier, she had found an old diary tucked away in a chest, the pages filled with her grandmother's script detailing the old folklore of this haunted mansion. Her dadi had written about the presence that is usually felt but never seen, a spirit bound to the place for centuries. But Khushi Kumari Gupta, a woman of science, had dismissed them as old wives' tales.

But tonight, the voice led her to the dusty, forgotten corner of the library.

She traced the spine of a leather-bound book she'd never noticed before, its title almost faded: "The Language of Lost Souls." A strange shiver ran down her spine, not from cold, but from a prickling awareness. She turned to leave, but then she heard it – clear as a bell this time. A voice she knew intimately, a voice she'd thought she'd never hear again. 

"Khushi," it breathed, a desperate plea that wrapped itself around her heart and squeezed it tight. "Turn around."

She obeyed, her body moving on its own accord. Her eyes widened, and a gasp escaped her lips, not of fear, but of stunned disbelief. There, shimmering in the dim light, was a figure, not of translucent vapor, but solid, whole, and all too familiar. His dark hair was ruffled, his brow furrowed with a concern she knew intimately, and his eyes, those intense, hazel-green eyes, were focused solely on her. The ghost, the presence, the voice – it wasn't some lost soul, but a soul she thought was gone forever, yet somehow here. 

It was Arnav Singh Raizada.

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Happy New Year!