The Aunty in My Room Says You’re Very Kind, Abbu

The Aunty in My Room Says You’re Very Kind, Abbu”

My daughter Areeba turned four last winter.

Bright eyes. Soft curls. A heart as curious as a candle in a cave.

We had just moved back into my ancestral house — a large, quiet place on the outskirts of Abbottabad. It had three bedrooms.

But one room — the one in the far corner — had always been locked.

Since we moved in, I never thought of opening it.

---

One morning, as I was preparing for work, Areeba climbed onto my lap.

She whispered:

> “Abbu... the aunty in my room says you’re very kind.”

I smiled, thinking she meant her mother, or some imaginary friend.

> “Which aunty, jaan?”

She pointed toward the locked door.

> “That aunty. The one with long hair. She talks to me when I’m sleepy.”

My smile faded.

> “But that room is always closed.”

She nodded cheerfully.

> “I know. But she comes from inside. She says it’s cold in there.”

---

I didn’t want to scare her.

Children imagine things. Right?

Still, that night, I stood by the locked door.

Dust on the knob.

Spider webs along the frame.

I gently opened it.

---

The Room

Cold air spilled out.

The room hadn’t been touched in decades.

Old furniture covered in sheets.

Curtains tattered.

A mirror — dusty, cracked at the corner — stood across the room.

Areeba peeked in.

> “See? She’s not here now. But she left something.”

She ran to the mirror.

I followed.

There, across the glass, drawn by a small finger, were the words:

“Thank you.”

---

I shivered.

It was written from inside the dust.

Fresh.

Real.

> “Who wrote this?”

She looked up.

> “The aunty. She said you helped her once. Long ago.”

> “What’s her name?”

> “She said you called her... baji.”

---

The Forgotten Sister

That night, I went through old boxes.

Found an album. Faded pictures. Memories covered in silence.

And then… a photo of me, age six, with a teenage girl behind me.

My cousin. Samra baji.

She had lived with us for one summer.

She passed away that same year — in this house.

In this room.

Fever. Isolation.

She died without ever saying goodbye.

---

My parents never spoke of it again.

The room was locked.

Her name was buried with time.

But my daughter… had never seen that photo.

Never heard her name.

---

The Night Visitor

A week later, I left the door slightly open.

Areeba had a fever.

I sat by her side.

Around 3:00 AM, I dozed off.

Until I heard it:

A soft humming.

A lullaby I hadn’t heard in decades.

I opened my eyes.

And saw her.

A woman.

Sitting by Areeba.

Long hair.

Wearing white.

Face gentle.

Not smiling. Not frowning.

Just… peaceful.

She looked at me.

And whispered:

> “Thank you… for remembering.”

And vanished.

---

Areeba slept calmly.

Her fever broke by morning.

---

Closure

I left the room open now.

Placed fresh flowers on the dresser.

Sometimes the mirror fogs over in the morning —

And a single smiley face appears.

Or the word:

“Goodnight.”

---

I never told anyone.

But I know this:

The dead don’t always haunt.

Sometimes…

They just want to be acknowledged.

To be remembered.

To say thank you.

---

And sometimes…

They find a way back —

Through the heart of a child.