The knock did not come again.
Instead, the bell rang.
Not the temple bell this time—but the iron one fixed outside the Roy mansion's gate, rusted and rarely used. Its sound traveled oddly through the house, vibrating through beams and stone alike, as though the mansion itself recognized the summons.
Arjun had already stepped away from Mihir.
His posture changed subtly—not fearful, but contained. Guarded.
"They won't cross the threshold," he said. "But they will try to make you."
"Who?" Mihir asked, though he already knew.
"The ones who still remember the rules."
The bell rang again.
Mihir hesitated only a second before moving. Part of him—some stubborn academic reflex—refused to be intimidated by rural theatrics. Another part, quieter and much older, whispered that this was how boundaries were enforced.
When he reached the gate, he found five people waiting.
The priest stood at the front, flanked by an ojha—a ritual specialist, not quite a tantric, not quite a healer. The ojha's hair was matted into thick ropes, streaked with gray ash. He wore no shirt despite the chill, his torso painted with crude yantras in black and red.
Behind them hovered three villagers: the tea stall owner, the widow Mihir had spoken to earlier, and a man he did not recognize, younger, eyes darting constantly toward the forest.
None of them stepped closer.
"You were warned," the priest said.
Mihir kept his voice calm. "I came to listen."
The ojha barked a laugh. "Listening is what starts it."
Mihir frowned. "Starts what?"
The widow spoke sharply. "The remembering."
A faint breeze stirred the banyan leaves beyond the wall.
Arjun stood just behind Mihir, silent. Watching.
"You are Roy," the priest continued. "And Roy blood does not come here for nothing."
"I didn't know," Mihir said. "My family never spoke of this place."
The ojha leaned forward, eyes bright. "That is how it survives."
Mihir's chest tightened. "What survives?"
No one answered immediately.
Instead, the priest reached into his cloth bag and withdrew a small object wrapped in red thread. He unwrapped it carefully.
A fragment of bone.
Human.
Mihir inhaled sharply. "That's—"
"Finger phalanx," the priest said calmly. "Taken from the cremation ghat. Thirty years ago."
Mihir stared. "Why keep it?"
"To count," the ojha replied. "And to remember what it costs."
"How many?" Mihir asked quietly.
The priest met his gaze. "Including your grandfather?"
Four.
Mihir's knees weakened.
"That's not possible," he said. "There would be records. Missing persons—"
"—do not remain missing long here," the widow interrupted. "They return to the tree."
The younger man flinched visibly.
Arjun shifted behind Mihir.
The ojha's eyes flicked toward him, narrowing.
"He walks too close," the ojha said.
Mihir turned. "Who?"
"You know who."
The priest raised a hand. "Enough."
He faced Mihir again. "There are rules in this village. Old ones. Older than law. Older than books."
Mihir swallowed. "Then tell me."
The priest's voice lowered.
"Do not answer voices after sunset.Do not sleep beneath open windows.Do not touch the banyan's roots.And do not follow the caretaker into the forest."
Mihir froze. "The caretaker?"
The ojha smiled, all teeth. "So you have met him."
Mihir glanced back instinctively.
Arjun stood exactly where he had been.
But the villagers did not look at him.
They looked through him.
"You can see him," the priest said softly. "That means the house has accepted you."
"What is he?" Mihir asked.
Silence stretched.
The widow crossed herself in a gesture that was half-Hindu, half-something older.
"He is what was bound," she said. "And what binds."
Mihir's pulse thundered. "Bound how?"
The ojha spat into the dust. "Blood and breath. Name and form. Smashan sadhana done wrong on purpose."
"That's impossible," Mihir whispered. "Binding a bhuta into—"
"—flesh," the priest finished. "Yes."
Mihir's mouth went dry.
"That kind of ritual requires a living anchor," he said. "A lineage."
The priest nodded.
"The Roys," the widow said. "Always the Roys."
Mihir turned slowly toward Arjun.
Arjun did not deny it.
"What happens to the Roys?" Mihir asked.
The younger man spoke for the first time, voice cracking. "He loves them."
The words landed wrong.
The ojha snorted. "He keeps them."
Mihir's vision blurred slightly. "That's not—"
"You asked for truth," the priest said. "Not comfort."
A long breath rolled through the forest.
Closer now.
Arjun stepped forward.
"That's enough," he said quietly.
The villagers stiffened as one.
"You do not speak of me like this," Arjun continued, his tone still gentle. "Not in his hearing."
The ojha hissed under his breath, fingers twitching toward a pouch of charms.
The priest's voice trembled. "You should not be here."
Arjun smiled faintly. "And yet."
Mihir looked between them. "You said they wouldn't cross the threshold."
"They won't," Arjun replied. "They know better."
"Why?"
Arjun's gaze never left the priest. "Because the house remembers who bled for it."
The priest's shoulders sagged.
"This is why we wanted you gone," he said to Mihir. "Before dusk. Before he grew too close."
Mihir's heart hammered. "Arjun—"
Arjun turned to him.
His expression softened instantly.
"They're afraid," he said. "That doesn't mean they're right."
The widow laughed bitterly. "That's what the others believed too."
Mihir whispered, "Others?"
The priest closed his eyes. "Your father asked the same questions."
Mihir sucked in a breath. "My father never came here."
"Yes," the priest said. "He did."
The world tilted.
"He stayed one night," the ojha added. "Long enough to hear the breathing."
Mihir's voice shook. "What happened to him?"
Arjun answered before anyone else could.
"He left," he said. "Because he chose to."
The priest opened his eyes sharply. "You let him go."
Arjun inclined his head. "Once."
The implication hung heavy.
Mihir stared at Arjun. "You never told me."
"You never asked," Arjun replied gently.
The bell rang again—once, by itself.
The younger villager whimpered. "It's late."
The priest stepped back. "You have until dusk," he told Mihir. "After that, the village will not intervene."
"Intervene how?" Mihir asked.
The ojha lifted his gaze, eyes shining.
"We burn seals," he said. "Even if they scream."
Arjun's hand brushed Mihir's wrist.
Not a warning.
A promise.
The villagers retreated, none of them turning their backs on the gate.
When they were gone, the silence rushed in.
Mihir exhaled shakily. "You could have told me."
Arjun studied him. "Would you have come if I had?"
Mihir didn't answer.
From the forest, the banyan inhaled again.
Long.
Deep.
Waiting.
Arjun leaned close, his breath cool against Mihir's ear.
"They know pieces," he whispered. "Fragments shaped by fear."
Mihir swallowed. "And what do you know?"
Arjun smiled—not cruelly.
Not kindly.
"They haven't told you the worst part yet," he said.
Mihir's chest tightened. "Which is?"
"That it's already begun."
Outside, a root shifted beneath the soil.
And something, deep within the house, listened.