B L O S S O M

"Some doors are locked for a reason—but curiosity is a fire, and Meher was already burning."

___________

Night bled into the haveli like ink into water.

Outside, the desert wind howled—low and mournful, like ancient songs of women who had once screamed inside these very walls. Inside, silence ruled like a tyrant.

But Meher couldn’t sleep.

Not after what Raunak said.

Not after what the servant girl whispered.

Ghosts.

She wrapped a plain shawl over her shoulders, leaving behind the red bridal garments that felt like a noose. Her bangles clinked as she moved, the only sound in the hallway.

She had memorized the guards’ rotation during the day.

They never stood post past 2 a.m.

That’s when she slipped out.

The east wing was colder.

The velvet curtain parted like a shroud, revealing darkness thick enough to choke on. No oil lamps. No electricity. Just air that tasted like dust, sandalwood, and secrets.

Every step echoed.

The floor was ancient stone. The portraits here were covered in white cloth. Even the walls seemed to groan under time’s weight.

And at the end of the hallway—stood the library.

Double doors. Padlocked.

But the strange part? The padlock was new. Not old and rusted like the rest. Not dusty. It had been touched recently.

Protected.

Meher’s heartbeat throbbed in her throat.

She reached for a hairpin in her bun. Thank God for late-night heist movies and small rebellions as a teenager.

It took five minutes. And then—

Click.

The lock surrendered.

The doors opened with a low moan, like they resented being woken.

The room smelled of old pages and colder memories.

Thousands of books lined the walls—some torn, some sealed in glass. Dust motes danced in the moonlight cutting through the cracked stained-glass windows.

But what caught her attention wasn’t the books.

It was a trunk.

Carved, locked, slightly open.

As if someone had opened it... and left in a hurry.

Inside?

Letters.

Tied in red silk.

She hesitated only a second before untying them.

“My dearest Naira,” the first letter began.

“He watches me always. He says he loves me, but it feels like being drowned slowly—by a man with a smile carved in ice...”

Meher’s hands began to tremble.

Letter after letter.

Dozens.

All from one woman.

All to no one.

All unread. All buried.

All speaking of Raunak Pratap Singh.

How he pursued her. Married her. Trapped her.

How she tried to run.

How she vanished.

Naira.

A name Raunak never mentioned.

A ghost the servants were too scared to speak of.

A creak behind her.

Meher turned.

Raunak stood in the doorway.

No shirt. Just loose black pants. Hair damp from a shower. Eyes darker than the night.

“You just couldn’t resist, could you?” he asked, voice like velvet—and venom.

She didn’t flinch.

“Who was Naira?”

He didn’t answer.

“Your wife?”

Still silence.

“Your prisoner?”

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

The click of the lock felt like a blade.

“She was weak,” he said. “She fell in love. Thought I’d change. She thought—like you do—that rebellion makes her interesting. It doesn’t.”

“She wrote letters,” Meher whispered. “And you never let them leave these walls.”

He stepped closer.

“She didn’t write to be heard. She wrote because no one was left to listen.”

His hand came up—not to strike her—but to brush a strand of hair behind her ear.

“She hanged herself,” he said coldly. “From the same balcony you stood on yesterday.”

The room swayed.

Meher felt bile in her throat.

“And you—what did you do?”

“I buried her in the east garden,” he said. “Under the white rose bush.”

She slapped him.

The sound echoed louder than any scream.

His head jerked slightly, cheek red.

For a moment—just a flicker—his mask cracked.

Not with rage.

But something far more dangerous.

Obsession.

He caught her wrist. Firm. Unmoving. Yet not cruel.

“You're different,” he whispered. “She begged to leave. You… you fight to stay.”

Her voice shook.

“I fight to stay alive.”

He leaned in.

“And that, Meher… makes you the perfect wife.”

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