The train vanished into darkness.
Silently.
One moment the final carriage remained visible through drifting fog—
the next it was simply gone.
No fading sound.
No distant wheels.
Nothing.
Only the trembling railway tracks beneath their feet.
Vayun still stood frozen near the tunnel edge staring into the darkness where his brother had disappeared.
His breathing had become uneven again.
“He saw me,” he whispered.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Because he was right.
Neelav had seen him.
And worse—
recognized him.
Mihir looked deeply unsettled now.
“That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“What wasn’t?” Maithili asked quietly.
“The passengers don’t usually wake up.”
A cold silence followed.
Far away inside the tunnel, something metallic groaned softly.
Not the train.
Something beneath it.
Mihir stepped backward immediately.
“We need to leave.”
The fear in his voice was enough.
Vayun finally tore his eyes from the darkness.
“We’re coming back.”
“No,” Mihir said instantly.
“We are.”
“The train changes people.”
Vayun’s expression hardened.
“He’s alive.”
Mihir didn’t argue.
That frightened Iraanshi more than disagreement would have.
The child turned toward the stone staircase leading upward.
“Hurry.”
They climbed quickly.
The deeper tunnel sounds followed them all the way up.
Metal dragging.
Water moving.
And beneath it all—
something breathing.
By the time they reached the iron door again, Iraanshi’s chest hurt from tension.
Mihir stopped suddenly before opening it.
His pale face had gone strangely distant.
“The house knows now.”
“What?” Iraanshi whispered.
“That you remembered each other.”
Nobody liked the sound of that.
Mihir slowly opened the door.
The hallway beyond had changed again.
Completely.
Gone were the endless rows of doors and oil lamps.
Now the corridor looked narrow and domestic.
Like an ordinary old home.
Wood-paneled walls.
Faded family photographs.
A long carpet running toward a single door at the far end.
The bedroom door.
Warm yellow light glowed faintly beneath it.
Iraanshi stopped breathing for a second.
She recognized it instantly.
Not from this night.
From somewhere older.
Somewhere buried.
The brass handle.
The chipped blue paint.
The crack near the bottom corner.
Recognition struck her so suddenly that dizziness swept through her body.
“I know that door.”
Maithili’s face tightened immediately.
“No.”
But Iraanshi was already walking toward it.
The hallway floor creaked softly beneath her steps.
Behind her, Vayun whispered:
“What’s wrong?”
She didn’t answer.
Because another memory had surfaced suddenly.
A child standing in this exact hallway holding someone’s hand.
Crying.
The smell of smoke.
Rain hitting windows.
And a woman’s voice saying:
“Don’t forget your real name.”
Iraanshi stumbled slightly.
The memory vanished before she could hold onto it.
The bedroom door waited silently at the end of the corridor.
Mihir refused to come closer.
The ghost child stood far behind them now clutching his umbrella tightly.
“You shouldn’t open it,” he whispered.
Iraanshi looked back at him.
“Why?”
His pale eyes lowered.
“Because some memories survive by staying locked.”
The sentence settled painfully inside her chest.
But the pull toward the room had become unbearable now.
Like the house itself wanted her there.
Or feared it.
She reached for the brass handle slowly.
It felt warm.
Alive.
Behind her, Maithili spoke softly.
“If the room shows you something… remember the house cannot create.”
Iraanshi frowned slightly.
“What?”
“It only consumes what already exists.”
Then she opened the door.
The smell hit first.
Jasmine oil.
Old paper.
Rain-damp wood.
Home.
The bedroom was small.
Almost painfully ordinary compared to everything else inside Lantern House.
A wooden bed stood beside the window.
Bookshelves lined one wall.
An old brass trunk rested near the corner.
And beside the bed—
a tiny yellow sweater folded carefully across a chair.
Iraanshi stopped moving entirely.
No one spoke behind her.
Because they understood immediately.
This was her room.
Or had been once.
The realization spread slowly through her body like ice water.
“No,” she whispered weakly.
Her gaze moved across the shelves.
Children’s storybooks.
Marathi handwriting on loose pages.
A broken paper lantern.
And framed photographs.
Dozens.
Iraanshi stepped closer shakily.
Every photograph showed the same little girl.
Thin braid.
Serious eyes.
Yellow sweater.
Her.
Not resemblance.
Not suggestion.
Her.
Years before she should have ever known Lantern House existed.
Her knees nearly gave out.
Vayun caught her shoulder before she collapsed.
“You lived here,” he whispered.
The words sounded unreal.
Impossible.
And yet the room itself felt more familiar than her current apartment downstairs ever had.
Like waking inside a forgotten childhood.
Maithili slowly opened the old brass trunk.
Inside were neatly folded children’s clothes.
School notebooks.
Tiny clay toys.
And beneath them—
a newspaper clipping.
Maithili went pale instantly.
“What?” Iraanshi whispered.
Maithili handed it to her silently.
The paper was yellow with age.
DATED: JULY 1987
MISSING CHILD FOUND NEAR VELANPUR CROSSING
The article described rescue workers discovering a young girl wandering alone during a monsoon storm near abandoned railway tracks.
The child reportedly refused to speak for several days.
Her family had not survived.
Iraanshi’s hands began trembling violently.
No.
No no no.
This couldn’t—
Then she saw the photograph attached to the article.
A little girl wrapped in a blanket.
Holding a paper lantern.
Her face hollow with shock.
Iraanshi.
The room tilted around her.
“I survived,” she whispered.
The others stared at her in quiet horror.
Because there was nothing left to deny.
She had been here before.
Not metaphorically.
Not spiritually.
Actually here.
The house had already taken her once.
And somehow—
let her leave.
A faint sound drifted through the room then.
Humming.
Soft.
Gentle.
The lullaby.
Iraanshi turned slowly toward the window.
The faceless woman stood outside in the rain.
Watching her.
Red wedding sari unmoving in the storm.
For the first time, Iraanshi did not feel immediate terror.
Only grief.
A terrible impossible grief.
“She’s your mother,” Maithili whispered softly.
The faceless woman tilted her head slightly.
Not denial.
Not confirmation.
Recognition.
Iraanshi stepped closer to the window slowly.
Tears burned painfully behind her eyes.
“I don’t remember your face,” she whispered.
The faceless woman raised one trembling hand toward the glass.
And suddenly—
memory exploded through Iraanshi’s mind.
Rain.
Screaming.
The railway accident.
A woman carrying her through flooded corridors.
The blue lantern burning overhead.
A voice repeating desperately:
“Stay awake. Stay awake.”
Another memory crashed into it immediately after.
The bedroom.
This room.
Her mother kneeling before her holding both sides of her face.
“You must forget this place if you want to leave.”
Then darkness.
Iraanshi gasped sharply and stumbled backward.
Vayun caught her again.
“What did you see?”
“My mother,” she whispered.
Not the faceless thing outside.
Not entirely.
The woman before the forgetting.
The woman who had saved her.
Outside the window, the faceless woman slowly lowered her hand.
The rain around her intensified suddenly.
Blue lantern light flickered violently through the courtyard below.
Then the woman finally spoke again.
And this time—
she used a different name.
A child’s name.
A forgotten name.
“Vaidehi,” she whispered softly.