Whispers of the Withered House: The Haunting Love

**Author's Note – Aish the Unstoppable, to her slow-burning, soul-bonded SHADOWHEARTS 💍🖤**

This is the silence *after* the storm.

The whisper of breath between two lovers who survived fire, blood, and mirrors that remembered too much.

Now we walk through a house that once screamed—and listen for what it says *now*.

Get ready. It's soft. Romantic. Haunting. And heavy with love.

---

The silence was startling.

Aanya noticed it first—not just the absence of whispers or flickering shadows or long-forgotten footsteps in the attic. No… this was deeper.

The **House had gone still**.

Like it had finally closed its eyes.

Like it was... resting.

She sat in the garden wrapped in Veer's old shawl, the one that still smelled faintly like sandalwood and storm. The same shawl he'd draped over her shoulders after they'd stood in the attic doorway for what felt like hours.

Not a single mirror had cracked since.

Not one whisper. Not one vision.

The wind moved through the trees like a song hummed gently by a child who no longer feared the dark.

Veer walked out barefoot, two mugs in hand—one coffee, one that cinnamon masala tea Aanya couldn't live without now.

"You look like you're waiting for a ghost to bring you breakfast," he teased softly.

She took the mug and held it close.

"Maybe I am."

"Tell them I make a better omelette," he smirked, sitting beside her. "And I'm the one who looks hotter in moonlight."

She didn't respond right away. Just stared at the sky where morning tried to break through fog.

"It's strange," she finally said. "After everything… I feel emptier than I thought I would."

Veer didn't flinch.

"You spent your whole life inside a story someone else wrote for you. It's okay to sit in the blank pages for a minute."

She leaned into his side.

"And what now?"

"We fill them," he said simply. "Together."

A beat passed.

"What if it all comes back? The voices. The mirror. The curse."

"Then I'll haunt it right back."

Aanya looked up.

"Veer—"

"No, listen to me," he said gently, brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. "If that House dares to whisper again, I'll learn every ghost's name and teach them how to say please before messing with you."

"That's… oddly romantic."

"Oddly? Woman, I just threatened to out-sass spirits for you."

"You should be illegal."

"I am. In seven dimensions."

She laughed into her tea.

And in that moment—nothing hurt.

---

They explored the house slowly, room by room.

Not because they feared it. But because every space now held a memory that no longer screamed—only *lingered*.

The mirror in the hallway remained intact. Its surface calm. It no longer showed the past. Only what stood before it.

Aanya touched it.

Her reflection didn't blink wrong. Didn't flicker. Didn't cry.

It just *smiled*.

And so did she.

"You're really not going to break again, huh?" she asked the mirror.

Veer stepped up beside her and smirked at their shared reflection.

"Good. I only need one broken thing in this house, and it's definitely me."

"No," Aanya said, reaching for his hand, "You're the reason I survived being broken."

---

In Naira's old room, they found the second gift left behind.

It wasn't a ghost. Not a memory. Just a box.

Inside: journals. Photos. A pressed marigold flower between pages that smelled like incense.

And a letter addressed to *Aanya + Veer*.

> *If you're reading this,*

> *Then the mirror has released its hold, and my girls are finally at peace.*

>

> *I hope you feel it. The shift.*

> *This House isn't just a place where curses slept.*

> *It's where love bled loud enough to wake the world.*

>

> *Please—don't sell it. Don't abandon it.*

> *Make it something else.*

>

> *Make it a home.*

Aanya folded the letter gently.

"She wanted us to rebuild."

"Then we will," Veer said. "But before that…"

He took her hand.

Turned her toward him.

And knelt.

Aanya gasped.

"You're not serious—"

"You think I'd survive all this and *not* marry the girl who argued with ghosts and stole my sanity?"

She blinked at him.

"This is not the proposal I imagined."

"Good. Because I have something better planned for the wedding night," he winked.

"You're the worst."

"Say yes, Mrs. Future-I'll-love-you-even-when-you-steal-the-blanket."

She laughed, wiping her eyes. "Yes. Of course, yes."

He stood and kissed her like the answer had already been written in their blood long ago.

---

The weeks passed like poetry stitched from silence.

The House was repaired room by room. Not perfectly—never perfectly—but *tenderly*.

The mandap was built in the same garden where Aanya first heard the whispers.

Now, it bloomed with white jasmine and rose petals. Where blood once fell, laughter echoed.

Aanya stood in front of the mirror on her wedding morning, **dressed in deep red silk**, her saree draped over her shoulder, embroidered with gold vines. Bangles clinked on her wrists, and a soft bindhi marked her forehead like a crown of memory and meaning.

"You look like poetry," a voice said behind her.

Veer.

In **ivory sherwani**, golden embroidery shimmering like firelight. His hair slicked back, a red stole over his shoulder.

He held her gaze in the mirror.

"You really came through the flames," he said softly.

"So did you."

"But you're the one who made it beautiful."

"You're going to make me cry."

"Not till after the vows. I worked hard on my mascara game."

She laughed, turning to him. He took her hand, kissed her knuckles.

"Ready to make history forget our blood and remember our love instead?"

"I already did."

---

They were married under the full moon, in the garden of a house once built for pain.

The fire between them burned clean.

Candles surrounded the space like soft ghosts finally at rest.

And when the vows were said, and the garlands exchanged—

The house didn't crack.

It *sighed*.

---

That night, Veer lifted her in his arms, bridal-style, and kicked the door of their wedding suite open.

"Don't you dare drop me," she laughed, holding his shoulders.

"Drop you? Babe, I carried your trauma. I can carry your weight in heels."

"I hate how good that line was."

"You love me anyway."

"Unfortunately. Fatally."

He laid her gently on the bed surrounded by marigolds and candlelight.

Kissed her forehead.

Then her nose.

Then her lips, slowly, reverently.

"We did it," he whispered.

"We're still doing it."

"Are you ready now, Mrs. Withered House, to face my final curse?"

"What curse?"

"Beast. Mode. Unlocked."

"Oh gods."

"Too late. You're mine now."

Their laughter rang out in the room where screams used to live.

---