The Tree That Still Whispers
When Ananya was six years old, she learned how to hear the world.
Because she could not see it.
Blind since birth, she knew her mother by the soft jingle of glass bangles. She knew her father by the faint smell of tobacco and sandalwood. She knew the forest by its breathing — wind combing through leaves, insects stitching the air with sound.
It was supposed to be a picnic.
A quiet stretch of woodland just outside the city. The kind of place families visited on Sundays. Her mother spread a mat. Her father laughed too loudly. Birds shrieked overhead.
And then—
"Stay here, Anu," her father said.
She heard footsteps crunching away.
She waited.
She counted heartbeats.
She listened.
The wind shifted.
"Ma?" she called softly.
No answer.
Only leaves rustling.
Then something else.
A whisper.
Not her mother.
Not her father.
Something low and trembling from somewhere close.
She stood up carefully, hands stretched forward.
"Baba?"
A branch snapped behind her.
She turned sharply.
Nothing but air.
The forest grew louder. Too loud. Cicadas screaming. Crows flapping violently.
She began walking toward what she thought was the direction of her parents' voices. But the forest bends sound. It lies.
Her foot struck something soft.
She fell.
The ground smelled damp.
Metallic.
She reached out her fingers—
And touched rope.
Cold.
Thick.
Tied around something hard.
Before she could understand—
A hand clamped over her mouth.
A whisper against her ear:
"Shhh."
And then—
Silence.
The Disappearance
Her parents reported her missing that evening.
An FIR was filed at the local police station. Search teams combed the forest for days. Volunteers shouted her name. Dogs were brought in.
No body.
No clothes.
No trace.
The forest gave nothing back.
People whispered tragedy.
Some whispered curse.
Years passed.
Grief softened into something quieter. Manageable.
And then, one day, her mother gave birth to another daughter.
They named her Ira.
They never spoke of Ananya again.
Not once.
Twenty-Two Years Later
Ira grew up believing she was their only child.
She inherited her mother's bangles. Her father's half-smile. But sometimes she felt something missing — like a name that should have existed in the house but didn't.
When she was twenty-two, her college friends planned a trip.
A weekend getaway to a forest outside the city.
The same forest.
Ira didn't know.
Her parents froze when she mentioned it.
"You shouldn't go," her mother said too quickly.
"Why?" Ira laughed. "It's just trees, Ma."
Her father looked pale.
"It's not safe."
But she went anyway.
The First Night
The forest felt wrong.
Even in daylight.
Too quiet.
Too watchful.
They set up camp near an old banyan tree with long roots hanging like skeletal fingers.
At night, the temperature dropped sharply.
And then it began.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Something struck the side of Ira's tent.
She froze.
"Guys?" she whispered.
No answer.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
It sounded like fingernails.
Slowly scratching down fabric.
She gathered courage and unzipped the tent.
Nothing.
Only trees.
Then—
Right behind her ear—
A whisper.
"Why did you leave me?"
She spun around, screaming.
Her friends ran out of their tents.
"What happened?!"
But the forest was still.
Too still.
The Second Incident
The next morning, Rohan — one of her friends — went missing for ten minutes.
They found him near the banyan tree.
Standing.
Motionless.
Facing the trunk.
"What are you doing?" someone asked.
He didn't respond.
Ira walked closer.
"Rohan?"
His lips moved.
"She's under here."
A sudden gust of wind howled through the forest.
Leaves exploded around them.
And then Rohan collapsed.
When he woke up, he remembered nothing.
The Dreams
That night, Ira dreamed of darkness.
But not ordinary darkness.
The kind you feel.
She was inside someone else's body.
Small hands.
Bare feet.
She could not see.
She heard her mother crying.
Heard her father whisper:
"We can't live like this."
"She'll always be a burden."
The dream shifted.
Cold rope around tiny wrists.
Mud beneath her back.
Her mother sobbing.
"I'm sorry."
Her father's voice:
"Close your eyes."
"I can't see," the little girl replied softly.
And then—
The sound of soil hitting skin.
The Discovery
The next day Ira couldn't breathe properly. The forest felt suffocating.
Drawn by something she couldn't explain, she walked alone to the banyan tree.
The air felt heavier there.
Thicker.
Her hands trembled as she knelt.
Without knowing why, she began digging.
Her friends shouted at her to stop.
But she kept digging.
Mud filled her nails.
Something hard hit her fingers.
She froze.
White.
Smooth.
A small bone.
The police were called.
They excavated the site.
A tiny skeleton emerged from beneath the tree roots.
Rope still wrapped around fragile wrists.
DNA tests were done.
The results shattered everything.
The remains belonged to Ananya.
Her elder sister.
Blind.
Declared missing.
Never found.
Because she was never lost.
The Truth
Confronted by the evidence, her parents broke.
Her mother collapsed, screaming.
Her father confessed.
They had panicked.
Medical bills.
Social shame.
Fear of raising a blind child forever.
They convinced themselves she would suffer.
So they ended it.
Buried her where no one would find her.
But the forest remembers.
And so do the dead.
The Final Night
After the truth surfaced, Ira returned one last time.
Alone.
She stood before the banyan tree.
"I'm sorry," she whispered into the wind.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then—
Soft footsteps behind her.
A gentle jingle of glass bangles.
A small hand brushing hers.
And a voice.
No longer angry.
Only sad.
"I waited."
The wind moved through the leaves like a sigh.
And for the first time in twenty-two years—
The forest was silent.