It began with laughter.
The kind of laughter that echoed off old wooden beams floated through open windows like the scent of cinnamon and orange peels.
Maya and her younger brother Arjun arrived at their grandmother's home on Wren Lane in spring.
Trees bowed under white blossoms, the air smelled of damp earth and tulips, and the house itself looked like something out of a fairytale.
The duo had returned after the incident in the family. The incident that nobody in the family could talk about for more than a few minutes.
It was of their parents... gone in an instant, nothing left, not even remains.
It was a rainy night when the accident happened. On the twisting road, the truck didn't see them in time, and it happened in an instant.
Maya could still remember everything clearly: the call, the sterile walls of the hospital, the too-white corridors, and how Arjun had screamed when he realised they weren't coming back.
After that, they had moved away and come to Wren Lane. It was meant to be a healing place for them, and that's what everyone said.
For a fresh start. For a slower life.
It is a place with trees, birdsong and no sharp edges... That's what they said.
Their grandmother's house sat at the very end of the lane, half-hidden behind tall hedges and an ancient flowering tree whose thick roots curled like fingers into the soil. It was the last house before the woods began; untamed, wild, and humming with cicadas even during the day.
The house was strange but warm. Ivy crept up one side of the stone walls. A silver wind chime clinked in the breeze, even when the air was still. The shutters were crooked, the porch sagged, and yet, it felt alive— as if the house had been waiting for them.
Amma, their grandmother, stood in the doorway with open arms. Her silver hair was tied neatly into a bun, her sari perfectly pressed despite the warm weather. She kissed Maya's forehead and cradled Arjun tightly, whispering prayers in Hindi under her breath.
"There, my children," she cooed softly. "You are home now."
Inside, the house smelled of turmeric, cardamom, old wood, and something sweet baking in the oven. Every inch of it was filled with memories—framed photographs, fading embroidery, stacks of worn books, and shelves filled with brass idols and dusty candles.
The floorboards creaked as if they remembered every footstep taken over the decades, every step and every person who walked on them.
Maya found it comforting, even though everything was unfamiliar. Arjun, who had barely spoken in days, began to loosen up. He followed Amma around the house, asking about every item: the cracked vase, the rusted keys on the hook by the door, the large iron bell by the fireplace.
"What's that bell for?" he asked. "In case of storms," Amma said without missing a beat.
"It keeps the house awake." She continued her words, but in a slightly lower voice.
Hearing her words, Maya chuckled. "The house sleeps?"
Amma looked over her shoulder with a strange glint in her eye. "All old houses sleep. Well, the good ones, anyways."
Speaking those words, she became silent.
That night, they had dinner on the back veranda. The sky was streaked with orange and indigo. Fireflies blinked lazily over the garden.
Amma served daal, rice, and hot roasted papad. Arjun ate three helpings and then fell asleep in the rocking chair beside her.
As for Maya, she stayed up a little longer, sipping chai and staring at the silhouette of the ancient tree against the stars.
"I remember this place being smaller," she said with nostalgia evident in her eyes.
"You were four, the last time you came," Amma replied, her voice calm and quiet.
"The house remembers you better than you remember it." She commented, without looking at her.
It was an odd thing to say. Maya looked at her to know more, but Amma's gaze was fixed on the tree. Her hands tightened briefly around her mug.
Thinking of something, Maya looked in a direction and asked, "Amma... was there always a door at the end of the hallway upstairs?"
At her words, Amma turned to her slowly.
"Yes. But you must not go near it." She spoke strictly, as if she wouldn't take no for an answer.
"Why? Is it locked?" Maya asked, but Amma didn't explain. Instead, she replied, "It doesn't matter if it is. It's not for you." Her tone was final.
"But what's inside?"
Amma looked at Maya and placed her mug down gently.
"Listen to me, Maya. You and Arjun are safe here. But this house... it has rules. That door must stay shut. Do not knock on it. Do not listen to it. Do not even touch the handle. It is the oldest part of this house, and it remembers things that shouldn't be remembered."
Maya felt the first chill of unease stir in her chest. Amma's voice sounded very serious, and the unease in her heart continued to grow.
That night, as she lay in bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, she heard it.
Softly. Barely there.
Three knocks. A pause. Then two more.
From the end of the hallway.
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