Letters From The Room That Doesn't Exist

Aarav had always been fascinated by old buildings, especially the abandoned Willowcrest Manor — a weather-beaten mansion at the edge of town, wrapped in vines like nature was trying to bury it. Locals said it was cursed, swallowed by time and sorrow.

He didn't believe in curses, only in stories.

Aur Willowcrest ke andar ek kahani chhupi thi. Woh mehsoos hota tha.

He bought the property, with plans to restore it and turn it into an art café. But the first night he stayed there, something strange happened.

A soft knock echoed through the empty corridors.

Knock… knock… knock.

Aarav froze. The house was empty — no workers, no guests, no one. Yet the sound came again, from the end of the hallway.

When he followed it, he discovered a door he hadn't noticed before — dusty, cracked, and old. Above it, carved into wood, was a single word:

“WAIT.”

His heart twisted strangely. He pushed the door open.

Inside was a small room with pale peeling wallpaper and a single wooden chair beside a desk. And on that desk lay an envelope — yellowed, sealed in wax, addressed to:

"To the one who still waits for me."

Aarav’s breath caught. He opened it.

The letter was written in delicate, looping handwriting:

If you find this room, don’t be afraid. I keep my promise.

Time couldn’t take you away from me. Not again.

— Mira

A chill crawled down his spine. Mira. He didn’t know the name, yet something inside him cracked.

A forgotten ache. Like missing someone he never met.

Suddenly the room felt colder. The air thickened.

Then he felt it — someone standing behind him.

He spun around.

No one.

But the faint scent of jasmine floated in the air. Soft. Familiar.

Like a memory that wasn’t his.

Unseen Footprints

Over the next days, the room changed.

Every morning, a new letter appeared — always sealed in wax, always addressed to him.

One read:

Our garden was always brightest at dusk.

Another:

I still braid marigolds in my hair for you.

And the most painful one:

You promised you would come back. You always break your promise.

Aarav should've been terrified.

Lekin har letter par uska dil bhari hota jaa raha tha — jaise woh sach mein kisi ka intezaar kar raha ho.

Someone he lost.

Someone he loved.

He tried researching. Town archives. Old news. Property records.

Nothing. No mention of any Mira. No tragic love story. Nothing.

Like she never existed.

Or like she existed only for him.

The Night She Returned

One stormy night, as lightning clawed across the sky, Aarav felt it again — presence. Whisper-soft breathing near his ear.

He turned.

A figure stood at the doorway — a woman, blurred like a memory underwater, hair floating like wind moved through it though the air was still.

She whispered, voice trembling with lingering love:

“Aarav… Tum waapis aaye.”

His heart clenched. “Who are you?”

Her eyes — ancient, aching — met his.

Not ghostly. Not monstrous.

Human. Broken. In love.

“I waited through lifetimes. But in every life, you forget. Every time… I remember. Alone.”

The truth hit him like thunder.

This wasn't haunting.

It was heartbreak stretched across lifetimes.

Mira stepped forward, almost real — fingertips inches from his cheek.

“Say it. Say you remember me.”

His throat tightened. He didn't remember — not fully. But he felt her. Every cell in his body vibrated with unfinished love.

“I don’t remember,” he whispered. “But I feel you. I know you.”

Her form flickered — hope fighting sorrow.

Lightning flashed. The room shook.

Then she said the final line:

“Then this life… we begin again.”

She touched his face — warm, tear-wet fingertips — and disappeared like breath on glass.

The letters on the desk turned blank.

The room that wasn't supposed to exist dissolved into bare wall.

But something new remained.

A jasmine flower on the floor. Fresh. Real.

And a whisper that echoed in his heartbeat:

This time, don’t forget me.