The knocking continued inside the wall.
Slow.
Patient.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
The wallpaper bulged outward again.
Not violently.
Gently.
Like fingertips pressing from the other side.
Iraanshi stumbled backward immediately.
“What the hell is in there?”
“No idea,” Vayun muttered. “And I’d like to keep it that way.”
Another knock.
The old waiting room lights flickered harder now, throwing long trembling shadows across the railway map.
Maithili slowly lifted her signal lamp toward the wall.
The wallpaper twitched.
Then split open slightly down the middle.
Darkness leaked through the crack.
And something small crawled out.
Iraanshi nearly screamed—
But stopped.
It was Mihir.
The umbrella boy.
He pulled himself halfway out of the wall like someone climbing through water. Rain dripped continuously from his hair and clothes, although the room itself remained dry.
The black umbrella still rested over one shoulder.
His grayish skin looked less frightening now.
Only tired.
Very tired.
Mihir glanced at all three of them.
“You shouldn’t shout so much,” he said casually. “The house listens.”
His voice no longer echoed strangely.
Now he sounded like an ordinary child.
That somehow felt worse.
Vayun instinctively stepped in front of Iraanshi.
“Stay away from him.”
Mihir rolled his eyes.
“You’ve been saying that since 2000.”
The room went still.
Vayun stared at him sharply.
“What did you say?”
“You heard me.”
Maithili looked deeply unsettled now.
“Mihir,” she said quietly. “You remember him?”
“Of course I remember him.” The boy shrugged faintly. “The house hasn’t eaten those parts yet.”
The sentence landed heavily.
Iraanshi studied him carefully.
He looked around ten years old.
Maybe eleven.
His oversized sweater hung loosely from his thin frame, soaked endlessly with rainwater that vanished before touching the floor.
“How old are you?” she asked softly.
Mihir tilted his head.
“When?”
The adults exchanged an uneasy glance.
The child sighed dramatically.
“I was nine when the train crashed.”
Silence filled the waiting room.
Outside somewhere beyond the impossible walls, thunder rumbled faintly.
Mihir slowly walked toward the railway benches.
He didn’t exactly walk normally.
His feet barely touched the ground.
More like drifting memories pretending to move.
“The station was crowded that night,” he said quietly. “Everyone wanted to leave before the flood reached the tracks.”
His eyes remained distant.
“Then the lantern appeared.”
The oil lamps overhead dimmed slightly.
Mihir’s expression changed subtly when he said the word lantern.
Not fear.
Recognition.
“My mother saw it first,” he continued softly. “Floating near the crossing.”
Iraanshi listened carefully.
“She told me not to stare at it.” A faint sad smile crossed his face. “So obviously I stared harder.”
For the first time since meeting him, he looked like an actual child.
Lonely.
Curious.
Small.
“The train derailed ten minutes later,” Maithili whispered.
Mihir nodded slowly.
“I remember the sound.”
The room seemed quieter now.
Even the breathing walls had stilled.
“Metal screaming,” Mihir said softly. “Glass breaking.” His fingers tightened around the umbrella handle. “Then water everywhere.”
His voice became distant.
“After that… nobody slept anymore.”
Iraanshi frowned slightly.
“What do you mean?”
Mihir looked directly at her.
“The house keeps people awake after death.”
A cold silence followed.
“What does that even mean?” Iraanshi whispered.
“It means nobody here fully dies.”
The lights flickered again.
Mihir looked toward the ceiling uneasily before continuing.
“The house keeps the parts it likes.”
His words settled deep into the room.
“The ghosts…” Iraanshi said slowly. “You’re not trying to hurt us.”
Mihir looked genuinely confused by the idea.
“Why would we hurt you?”
“Because you’re—”
“Dead?” he finished calmly.
Nobody spoke.
Mihir sat cross-legged on one of the railway benches.
“We’re trapped,” he said simply.
There was no anger in his voice.
Only exhaustion.
“The house remembers us when the world forgets.”
Iraanshi felt something painful tighten inside her chest.
For the first time, Lantern House felt less like a haunted place—
And more like a wound.
Vayun remained tense.
“You said you remember me.”
“Yes.”
“And my brother?”
At that, Mihir became quiet.
His eyes drifted downward.
“He’s still here.”
Vayun inhaled sharply.
Maithili immediately looked away.
“You’ve seen him?” Vayun asked.
Mihir nodded slowly.
“Sometimes.”
“Where?”
“The train mostly.”
“What train?”
Mihir frowned faintly.
“The one that comes at 1:13.”
The waiting room clock suddenly ticked loudly behind them.
Backward.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Vayun stepped closer to the child.
“Can he leave?”
Mihir hesitated too long before answering.
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m trying not to make you sad.”
The honesty of the sentence struck harder than cruelty would have.
Vayun’s jaw tightened.
“You don’t understand. I came here for him.”
“Yes,” Mihir said quietly. “That’s why the house let you in.”
The room fell silent again.
Iraanshi slowly sat down across from Mihir.
“What does the lantern actually do?”
The child’s expression changed immediately.
Fear.
Real fear.
Even the shadows near the walls seemed to retreat slightly.
“It keeps the door open.”
“What door?”
Mihir looked toward the dark hallway outside the waiting room.
“The one underneath.”
A deep sound echoed faintly somewhere below them.
Like something enormous shifting in sleep.
The benches vibrated slightly.
Nobody spoke until the sound faded.
Then Mihir leaned closer to Iraanshi.
“You need to extinguish the lantern.”
Vayun immediately shook his head.
“No.”
Mihir ignored him.
“If the lantern dies before the house finishes feeding, some people can leave.”
“And if it doesn’t?” Iraanshi asked quietly.
Mihir’s eyes drifted toward the floor.
“Then the house closes again.”
“For another thirteen years?”
He nodded.
Vayun stepped forward angrily.
“We are not extinguishing anything.”
Mihir looked up at him sadly.
“You think your brother is waiting exactly the way you remember him.”
“He is.”
“No,” Mihir whispered gently. “Nobody stays whole here.”
Something in Vayun’s face cracked slightly at those words.
But only for a second.
“He’s alive,” Vayun said firmly.
Mihir didn’t argue.
That frightened Iraanshi more than disagreement would have.
The child slowly stood from the bench.
Rainwater continued dripping endlessly from his sleeves.
“When the lantern changes color,” he said quietly, “the house changes too.”
As if responding to him—
Every oil lamp in the waiting room suddenly flickered violently.
Blue light flooded briefly across the walls.
Then—
For one terrible second—
The glow outside the distant hallway windows vanished entirely.
Not dimmed.
Extinguished.
Mihir froze instantly.
His pale face lost all expression.
“No,” he whispered.
The darkness vanished just as quickly.
Blue returned, though slightly weaker.
But the room had changed.
The air felt colder now.
Hungrier.
And somewhere deep inside the walls—
Something laughed softly.