"The Ghost of Rosewood Hill: Uncovering Aleha's Chilling Secret"😱😱

Part: 02

After death ,Heart pounding, he rushed downstairs and peeled the mirror from the hallway wall. Behind it, hidden in the wall’s hollow, he found a dusty old photograph. A girl smiling in sunlight. Aleha. And beside her—his father.

His world shifted. The air left his lungs. That night, he stood in the hallway, photograph in hand, and waited. Aleha returned. Her figure is sharper now. Her voice is firmer.

“He didn’t just watch me fall,” she said. “He chose not to save me.”

Rayyan confronted his father, his voice shaking but firm. “You knew her. You loved her.” His father’s expression broke like glass. “It was an accident,” he whispered. “She was too much. Too intense. I told her it was over. She couldn’t handle it.”

“She said you watched her die,” Rayyan said. “She said you let her fall.” Silence.

Aleha came back again that night. Her eyes weren’t just sad—they burned with the memory of betrayal. “He left me screaming,” she said. “He locked the truth. Buried me with it.”

The final clue remained—the rose tree in their backyard. At midnight, under a silver moon, Rayyan dug with bare hands. Beneath the roots, he found a small metal box. Inside was Aleha’s journal, soaked in age and blood. Pages torn, smeared, but one entry still intact.

“If anything happens to me, it wasn’t an accident. If he says he loved me, remember—love doesn’t push. It protects.”

Rayyan couldn’t breathe. The truth was heavier than any ghost.

The next morning, without a word, he placed the journal on the steps of the local police station. Anonymously. He watched from across the street as an officer picked it up, read it, and turned pale. Within hours, their house was surrounded. His father was arrested. Charged with murder, ten years too late.

That night, for the first time, Aleha smiled.

Her figure no longer flickered. She looked whole. Her eyes glowed not with pain but with peace. She stood beside Rayyan, touching his hand gently. Her fingers were cold, but her presence was warm.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Now they’ll remember.”

Then she vanished.

They moved again. New town. New house. But the memory never left. Rayyan still wakes up at 2:33 AM some nights, staring at the window, waiting for a whisper.

But it never came.

Because some ghosts don’t haunt to scare.

Some only haunt to be heard.

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