Sisters

The first time Nikhil met the Sharma sisters, he was instantly drawn to Meera. Meera, with her radiant smile and firecracker spirit, was impossible to resist. She was all warmth and mischief, a burst of colour and chaos in his otherwise structured world. In contrast, her sister, Aisha, was quiet, watchful—an old soul almost…with eyes that seemed to understand everything without a single word spoken.

It was Meera who loved him, Meera who chased him, Meera who stole his breath away with her laughter. 

And yet, it was Aisha who knew him.

Nikhil never quite understood how it happened. How a simple, unspoken bond with Aisha had formed, how it deepened into something beyond friendship, beyond family—something that went beyond definition. There were no stolen kisses, no flirtatious glances. Just an inexplicable understanding, an unshakable trust. She was the one he turned to when he was lost, when the weight of the world felt too heavy on his shoulders. She never asked for anything, never demanded. She just was.

And Meera? She saw it.

She saw the way Nikhil’s shoulders relaxed in Aisha’s presence, how their silences were comfortable in a way Meera’s chatter could never be. She saw the ease, the wordless conversations, the knowing smiles.

She tried not to be jealous.

But the ache inside of her grew with every passing day.

One evening, Meera sat with Nikhil on the terrace, their fingers intertwined. The city lights stretched out before them, but her mind was elsewhere.

“She leaves first, you know,” she said softly, watching his face. “When we’re together, Aisha always walks away first.”

Nikhil frowned. “What do you mean?”

Meera turned to him, searching his face. “I mean she’s always the one to step back. Always the one to disappear when we’re around each other. She does it so we don’t feel it, but I do. And it kills me.”

Nikhil sighed, rubbing his temple. “Meera, you’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” Her voice was bitter. “Then tell me, Nikhil… if you had met her first, would you still have been with me?”

He had no answer.

The breaking point came on a rainy night, thunder rumbling low in the distance.

Aisha stood at the doorway, a small bag at her feet. Meera stood before her, arms crossed tightly, while Nikhil hovered between them, torn and helpless.

“You don’t have to do this,” Nikhil said, his voice firm but almost a whisper.

Aisha smiled, but it was a sad, tired thing. “I do.”

Meera shook her head, her voice shaking. “I don’t understand, Aisha. Why do you always have to be the one who gives up?”

Aisha’s gaze softened. “Because I love you more than I want to stay.”

Meera let out a soft cry, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t.” Aisha reached out, brushing a tear away. “You and I… we’re written in blood. But some bonds demand distance to survive.”

Nikhil clenched his jaw, stepping forward. “Aisha—”

But she was already gone.

Meera and Nikhil tried.

They tried to piece together what remained after Aisha left. They travelled, they laughed, they made love under the stars. But the ghost of her absence lingered between them, an unspoken emptiness which neither of them could fill.

Some nights, Nikhil would turn in his sleep, instinctively reaching for a presence that was never meant to be his. And Meera, wide awake beside him, would close her eyes and pretend not to notice.

Years later, when they finally parted ways, they did so with quiet acceptance. There were no grand fights, no bitter words—only the soft realisation that sometimes love can never truly be enough.

And somewhere, in a distant city, Aisha sat by a window, watching the rain fall, wondering if some loves were only meant to be felt, never held or realised. 

Copyright (c) Pratik Majumdar, 2025. Any article, story, write-up cannot be reproduced in its entirety or in part, without permission. URL links can be used

The Corner Table

Every evening, at exactly six-thirty, he took his place at the farthest corner of the café—by the window, facing the street. The table was small, slightly wobbly, but it was his. The wood had darkened with time, the edges smoothed by years of elbows resting, fingers tracing absentminded patterns. A single overhead lamp cast a muted yellow glow on its surface, highlighting the tiny cracks in the varnish.

The café hummed around him—a blend of clinking cups, murmured conversations, and the occasional burst of laughter from a table near the counter. The air brimmed with the scent of strong coffee, toasted bread, and something faintly sweet, perhaps vanilla. Outside, the city pulsed with life. Neon signs flickered, their reflections dancing on the wet pavement from an earlier drizzle. Cars honked impatiently. Pedestrians, bundled in scarves and jackets, moved briskly, their footsteps blending into the rhythm of the evening.

He sat with his hands wrapped around the warm ceramic cup, inhaling the familiar scent of adrakwali chai. The steam curled upward, dissolving into the dim light. He took a slow sip, feeling the spice settle on his tongue, the heat spreading through his chest—a comfort he had come to rely on.

His eyes drifted to the glass, not really looking at the street but beyond it, into a time when this city had not felt so distant, when the days had not felt so heavy.

There was a winter evening, long ago, in this very café. The laughter of friends, the scrape of chairs being pulled close, the clatter of spoons against cups as stories were exchanged. He remembered a girl—her voice like soft rain, her fingers tapping against the table as she spoke, eyes sparkling with something he had never been able to name. They had sat here for hours, the world outside forgotten, lost in a conversation that felt endless. She had left a doodle on a tissue—just a rough sketch of a book and a cup of tea. He had tucked it into his wallet, meaning to throw it away later, but never did.

He reached into his pocket now, fingers brushing against its frayed edges. The ink had faded, the lines barely visible, yet he could still see them as clearly as if they had been drawn yesterday. She was gone now—like most people eventually had, from his life. The city had swallowed her up, just as it had, with everyone. 

He sighed, tucking the tissue back where it belonged.

As the evening grew, the streetlights flickered on, casting long, distorted shadows on the pavement. The café would close soon. He would leave, just as he always did, slipping into the night as unnoticed as when he arrived. But tomorrow, he would return. The same corner, the same chai, the same quiet ache of remembering. He smiled as he got up, feeling charged up to face another day. 

Copyright (c) Pratik Majumdar, 2025. Any article, story, write-up cannot be reproduced in its entirety or in part, without permission. URL links can be used

The Willow House

The train rattled along the tracks, carving a path through hills and rivers, through forgotten villages and nameless towns. Inside, the traveler sat by the window, his gaze unfocused, his mind adrift. He had no permanent home, no final destination—only the motion of the train, the quiet solitude of travel, and the occasional stops in unfamiliar places where he could lose himself for a while.

That evening, he stepped off at a town whose name he hadn’t bothered to read. The air smelled of rain-soaked earth and woodsmoke. It was small, quaint, wrapped in an eerie quietness that settled deep into his bones.

He found lodging at The Willow House, a guest house on the outskirts of town, run by a woman named Laila. She was striking—dark-haired, with an old-world beauty that belonged to another time. There was something graceful yet lonely about her, as though she were waiting for something.

“You travel alone?” she asked, her voice soft yet knowing.

He nodded. “Always.”

She smiled. “Then you’ll find peace here.”

And for the first time in years, he did. The town had a slow, unhurried rhythm, and in Laila’s guest house, he felt something unfamiliar—comfort. She would bring him tea in the evenings, sit with him by the fire, listening to his stories with a quiet intensity. He found himself watching her, drawn to the way candlelight danced against her skin, the way her fingers lingered on old books as if they held secrets only she could read.

But the townsfolk were different. Their warmth cooled the moment he mentioned where he was staying. The shopkeeper’s smile faded. The bartender hesitated before pouring his drink. The old woman at the bakery pressed a loaf of bread into his hands and muttered, “Don’t stay too long, son.”

He asked, but no one would say why.

One night, as the wind howled outside, he found Laila standing by the window, staring into the dark.

“What are you looking at?” he asked.

She turned, smiling that same wistful smile. “Just the past.”

Something in her voice sent a shiver down his spine.

Later, in the dead of night, he woke to a noise—a soft creaking, like footsteps on wood. Slipping out of bed, he followed the sound down the dimly lit hall, past rooms that should have been empty but felt filled with unseen presence. The house felt different now—heavier, as if it carried stories too painful to be spoken.

Then he saw it.

A door at the end of the hall, slightly ajar.

Inside, the room was untouched, layered in dust. A single suitcase sat in the corner, worn and forgotten. He stepped closer, and his breath caught in his throat. Inside the suitcase were clothes—shirts, coats, scarves—all belonging to men. Different sizes, different styles, but all worn, all abandoned.

And beside the suitcase, a faded photograph.

It was Laila. And a man. A different man. Holding hands, smiling.

The date on the photograph was last year.

His stomach twisted. He stepped back, his heart hammering against his ribs. How many men had come before him? How many travelers, seeking shelter in a town that tried to warn them?

A floorboard creaked behind him.

He turned.

Laila stood in the doorway, her expression unreadable. In her hands, she held a knife.

“You should have never opened that door,” she whispered.

The wind outside howled, but inside The Willow House, all was silent.

Copyright (c) Pratik Majumdar, 2025. Any article, story, write-up cannot be reproduced in its entirety or in part, without permission. URL links can be used

Double Cross

He kept calling her number and it kept saying unreachable. He wondered what had happened.

The rain pounded against the windows of the small, dimly lit police station as Rohan Mehra sat across Inspector Priya Sharma. His hands shook as he clutched a photograph of his wife, Ananya. She had been missing for three agonizing days.

“She went out for groceries,” Rohan said, his voice wavering. “She never came back. I’ve called everyone, checked everywhere. She’s just… gone.”

Inspector Sharma studied him intently. Rohan’s anguish seemed genuine, but there was something about his story that felt off. Nevertheless, she assured him they would do everything possible to find Ananya.

“It’s always the husband,” she thought to herself. 

The search commenced. Days melted into nights, and just when hope began to fade, a breakthrough emerged. A woman matching Ananya’s description was found wandering along a deserted highway, disoriented and injured. She was quickly rushed to the hospital, and Rohan was summoned to identify her.

He was overwhelmed to see her! He could hardly believe it!

There she was—Ananya. Her face was bruised, her arm in a sling, but there was no mistaking her. Rohan’s relief washed over him as he brought her home, determined to care for her. But as the days unfolded, an unsettling feeling settled in the pit of his stomach.

Something felt off about Ananya. She looked the same, spoke the same, even had the same mannerisms—but Rohan couldn’t shake the nagging sense that she wasn’t truly his wife. Her laughter seemed strained, her gaze lingered for too long, and she deftly avoided discussions about the night she vanished.

The unease consumed Rohan from within. How could this be? How was it even possible? Thoughts and doubts danced chaotically in his mind. He kept asking himself several questions, questions to which he had no answer. 

One evening, as they sat by the fireplace, Ananya casually mentioned wanting to change her insurance policy. “I think it’s time to update the nominee,” she said, her tone light, but her eyes glinted with something more.

Rohan froze. His heart raced as he stared at her. “You’re not her,” he blurted out, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and rage. “You can’t be her,” he screamed. 

“Of course I am,” she replied, puzzled by his outburst. “What are you talking about?”

“You can’t be her. It’s impossible. Because I killed my wife. I staged it to look like an accident. So who the hell are you?” He collapsed to the floor, his face covered by trembling hands.

Ananya’s expression remained unchanged. She leaned back in her chair, a faint smile touching her lips. “Oh, Rohan,” she said softly. “You always had such confidence, didn’t you?”

Rohan’s mind raced. “What are you saying? Who are you?”

Ananya rose, her movements deliberate. “You thought you got rid of me, didn’t you? But you didn’t. 

You killed someone else.”

Rohan felt his blood run cold. “What are you talking about?”

“That night,” Ananya continued, her voice steady, “I knew what you were planning. I had seen your gaze, heard the whispers about the insurance payout. So, I devised a plan of my own. Your ex-girlfriend, Kavita, came to visit us that day. She still had feelings for you, you know. I persuaded her to dress like me, to take my place in the car. I even gave her my purse and my phone—everything. And in your rush, you didn’t even notice.”

Rohan felt his legs give way, and he sank to the floor. “No… no, that can’t be. Kavita was supposed to arrive the next day…” His voice trailed off.

“Oh, it’s entirely possible,” Ananya said, her voice icy. “You tampered with the brakes just like I knew you would. But it wasn’t me in that car, Rohan. It was Kavita. You killed her. Kavita wanted to surprise you by showing up early. And how perfectly that worked out for me, huh?” Her smirk widened.

Rohan’s thoughts spiralled. He remembered the crash, the flames, the body retrieved from the wreckage. He had been so sure it was Ananya. “But… the body… the police…”

Ananya’s smile turned sour. “The body was too badly burned for identification. The police assumed it was me because of the items Kavita carried. And you… you played the grieving husband perfectly, didn’t you? But then I went to the police with my story. And we orchestrated this entire charade to draw you out and force you to confess.”

Rohan’s world crumbled around him. He now realised why Kavita’s phone kept saying “unreachable”. He had been meticulous, so convinced of his cleverness. Yet he had been outsmarted by the one person he thought he had in his grasp.

Ananya walked to the door and opened it. Inspector Sharma stood there, accompanied by two uniformed officers. “Rohan Mehra,” Sharma stated, “you’re under arrest for the murder of Kavita Desai.”

As the officers fastened the handcuffs around him, Rohan looked at Ananya one final time. “You… you masterminded this all along.”

Ananya’s gaze was frosty. “You taught me well, Rohan. To survive, you always need to stay one step ahead.”

As Rohan was led away, the burden of his own treachery pressed heavily on his shoulders. He had considered himself the puppet master, but in the end, he was merely a pawn in a game he hadn’t even recognized.

And Ananya? She stood in the doorway, watching him leave, a small, satisfied smile gracing her lips. She had triumphed. But only she understood the price she had paid for this “victory.” 

Copyright (c) Pratik Majumdar, 2025. Any article, story, write-up cannot be reproduced in its entirety or in part, without permission. URL links can be used

A Song for Yesterday

The café had not changed. The wooden beams still held the scent of old coffee, and the walls bore the same soft golden glow that once made everything feel warm, intimate. Daniel stepped inside, shaking off the evening chill, his fingers tightening around the edges of his coat.

It had been years since he had last walked these floors, years since he had sat in that farthest corner, with a love so intense it felt like it could bend time. Isabelle used to sit across from him, her hands curled around a porcelain cup, her eyes dancing as she teased him about something or nothing at all.

He could still hear her laughter. Still feel the way his world had narrowed to just her, the way love had made everything else seem irrelevant. Until, of course, it wasn’t enough. Until they had shattered beneath the weight of things unspoken, wounds inflicted in the heat of anger, pride refusing to bend.

And then she was gone.

Daniel exhaled, rubbing his chest absently as if trying to soothe an old ache. He took his usual seat, the one he had once claimed as theirs.

That was when he heard it.

A single note, rising gently through the quiet murmur of the café. Then another. And then—

“When the rain fell that night, did you stand by the window?”

His heart stopped.

It was their song. The song he and Isabelle had written together in the fragile, golden days of their love. A Song for Yesterday. It had never been released, never shared beyond the two of them. No one else in the world should have known it.

But someone did.

His gaze snapped toward the small platform at the front of the café. A girl stood there, her eyes closed, her voice carrying each note like a whisper from the past. She was young, maybe eighteen, maybe a little older. The curve of her jaw, the tilt of her head—there was something hauntingly familiar about her. And she strummed her guitar with that same absent-minded nonchalance. 

As the last note faded into silence, she opened her eyes.

And she saw him.

For a moment, they simply stared at each other. Then, she smiled—not the smile of a stranger, but something softer, knowing. As if she had expected him to be here. As if she had come for this very moment.

Daniel pushed back his chair and walked toward her, his heart pounding. “That song…” His voice was rough, uncertain. “How do you know it?”

The girl held his gaze, and for a fleeting second, he saw something—something deep, something almost wistful—flash across her eyes.

But she didn’t answer. She only smiled again, as if his question had already been answered.

And suddenly, it struck him!

She was Isabelle’s daughter.

Not his, but hers. And this—this was why she was here. To find him. To let him hear that song one last time. To remind him that love never truly disappears; it lingers in melodies, in echoes, in the hearts of those left behind.

His chest felt full, overwhelmed by a tenderness he hadn’t felt in years.

The girl gave him one last lingering look before she turned, stepping away from the stage, disappearing into the night.

The next evening, Daniel returned, searching. But the café owner only shook his head.

“She’s gone.”

Daniel stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty space where she had stood.

She had come only for this. To see him once. To carry her mother’s love to the one man Isabelle had never truly left behind.

A gust of wind rustled the chimes by the café door, and in his mind, the song played once more.

“When the rain fell that night, did you stand by the window?”

Daniel closed his eyes, his lips curving into a wistful smile.

Isabelle had sent him her love, one last time. And that was enough.

Copyright (c) Pratik Majumdar, 2025. Any article, story, write-up cannot be reproduced in its entirety or in part, without permission. URL links can be used

Love, Unrequited

She, with pigtails and red ribbons. 

He, with scraped knees from innumerable bicycle falls. 

They, with shared lunchboxes and personal jokes which only they understood and laughed at. 

They were six. They were inseparable. 

Vikram and Saira. 

As they grew up, so did something unspoken between them. In high school, when a boy left a love letter in Saira’s notebook, she barely read it before tearing it apart. Vikram noticed but said nothing. And when girls gushed about Vikram’s charming smile, Saira only pretended to be uninterested, waiting—always waiting—for him to turn to her.

In college, boys pursued Saira, but she refused them all, always hoping that one day Vikram would gather the courage to ask. He never did. Instead, they remained best friends, standing beside each other through exams, late-night study sessions, and stolen moments beneath moonlit skies.

But after college, life pulled them apart. There were no bitter words, no dramatic farewell—just a long silence that stretched between them until it became an insurmountable distance.

Years passed. Saira got married. Vikram did too. Life moved forward, but the memory of him was like a quiet ache in her heart, a love that had never bloomed but had never quite died either. She kept it placed carefully in a special corner of her heart.  

Then one evening, out of the blue, her phone rang. The name on the screen made her hold her breath. 

Vikram.

She hesitated. And then, with trembling fingers, answered.

“Hello?”

There was a pause, and then—“Saira…” His voice was deeper, yet unmistakable. It sent a shiver through her, pulling her back to a time when they sat side by side, dreaming of tomorrows that never came.

They talked about everything and nothing, falling into old rhythms as if no time had passed. He told her about his life, and she told him about hers. Then, after a quiet lull, he sighed.

“You know, I had feelings for you back then,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Saira’s heart stopped. “What?”

“Yes I was in love with you,” he said. “For years. But I never had the courage to say it. I was afraid of losing you.”

The world around her blurred. She let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. “Vikram… I felt the same way.”

Silence. A long, stunned silence where both of them realised the gravity of what they had just confessed.

“All those times,” Saira whispered, her voice laced with longing, “I kept waiting for you. I kept turning people away, hoping that one day you’d ask.”

Vikram let out a soft, almost broken laugh. “And I kept telling myself you deserved better than me.”

They fell silent again, the what-ifs stretching between them like a bittersweet melody.

The night deepened as they reminisced, reliving old memories—the way he’d sneak chocolates into her bag during exams, the way she’d hold his hand just a second longer than necessary when they crossed the street. Every stolen glance, every unsaid word—now laid bare, too late, yet somehow still precious. Maybe more. 

They spoke until dawn, their words soaked in nostalgia and quiet yearning.

But as the sun began to rise, reality seeped back in.

“I think this has to be our last conversation,” Vikram said softly. “We both have our lives now.”

Saira’s throat tightened. She had known this was coming. “I know.” She followed it with silence. 

“Saira?”

“Yes?”

“Promise me you’ll be happy.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “Only if you promise the same.”

He let out a faint chuckle. “Deal.”

And just like that, they said their final goodbye.

The call ended, but the memory of this call would linger forever—a love that never was, yet somehow, in that one conversation, had finally found its voice.

Copyright (c) Pratik Majumdar, 2025. Any article, story, write-up cannot be reproduced in its entirety or in part, without permission. URL links can be used

Happy Anniversary

The hotel room was quiet except for the distant hum of the city beyond the hills. Meera sat at the edge of the bed, staring at the golden flicker of the candle on the nightstand. It was meant to be a romantic gesture, yet it felt like a cruel irony now. Across from her, Kabir leaned against the window, arms crossed, his gaze locked on the dark horizon. Neither of them spoke. They had spoken too much already—too many accusations, too many bitter words that had chipped away at what they once were.

This was their seventh wedding anniversary. And yet, they weren’t even sure if they would still be together to celebrate it.

“I don’t know why we’re even here,” Kabir muttered, his voice laced with exhaustion.

Meera swallowed hard. “Because we used to love this place,” she said, almost pleading. “Because we thought maybe—just maybe—coming back here would remind us of who we were before everything went wrong.”

Kabir exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Before you betrayed me.”

Her heart clenched. She had no defense—there was no excuse for what she had done. A meaningless one-night stand with her colleague, a mistake born out of loneliness, anger, and something she couldn’t even explain to herself. But did that one terrible night erase the years of love between them?

“You weren’t perfect either,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “A month before our wedding… your ex.”

Kabir turned to her, his jaw tightening. “For the last time, Meera, nothing happened that night. She came to say goodbye. That was it. You’ve held onto this for seven years, and it was never true.”

Meera looked down at her hands. “And yet, when I look at you, I still see her shadow.”

They were trapped in this endless cycle of hurt, of anger and regret. No matter how hard they tried to talk, they only ended up further apart.

Silence stretched between them.

Finally, Kabir sighed. “I need some air.” Without waiting for a response, he walked to the balcony and stepped outside.

Meera hesitated, then followed him.

The air was crisp, carrying the scent of jasmine and earth from the surrounding woods. And there, hanging in the velvet sky, was the full moon—silver and luminous, casting a gentle glow over everything.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. They just stood there, side by side, staring at the moon as if it held the answers to all their unspoken questions.

Then, softly, Kabir began to hum.

Meera’s breath hitched. It was Mausam Pyar Ka, their song—the song that had played in the background of their long drives, their stolen moments of love, and the quiet nights when words weren’t needed, only music.

“Mausam pyaar ka, rang badalte rahe…”

His voice was rough, filled with emotion, yet gentle—like a caress against her wounded heart.

Meera turned to him, her throat tightening. And then, without thinking, she joined in.

“Yun hi chalta rahe, Tere mere…Pyar ka caarvaan…”

Their voices melted into the night, weaving a bridge between their broken hearts.

As they sang, something shifted. The years of love they had built, the memories they had shared, the laughter, the dreams—they weren’t gone. They had only been buried beneath their pain. And now, standing under the full moon, singing their song, those memories surfaced again, wrapping around them like an unbreakable thread.

Kabir’s eyes softened, and Meera saw something in them she hadn’t seen in a long time: love. Pure, unwavering love.

She reached for his hand, and he didn’t pull away. Instead, he pulled her closer.

Their voices faltered, replaced by the steady rhythm of their hearts.

“I don’t want to lose you,” she whispered, tears shining in her eyes.

“You never lost me,” he murmured. “We just lost our way.”

His fingers traced the curve of her cheek, and she leaned into his touch. Slowly, gently, he kissed her—soft at first, then deeper, as if pouring all the love they had almost forgotten into that one moment.

When they finally pulled away, the clock inside the room struck midnight.

Kabir smiled, his forehead resting against hers. “Happy anniversary, Meera.”

A tear slipped down her cheek, but this time, it wasn’t out of sadness.

“Happy anniversary, Kabir.”

And just like that, they knew—they had found their way back to each other.

Copyright (c) Pratik Majumdar, 2025. Any article, story, write-up cannot be reproduced in its entirety or in part, without permission. URL links can be used

The Second Wife

The first time he spotted her, she stood beneath the archway on the Rue de Rivoli, the Eiffel Tower outlined in the dimming Parisian twilight behind her. At first glance, she didn’t seem remarkable, but there was something about her posture—graceful yet elusive—that caught his attention. When their gazes locked, a spark ignited in his chest, a feeling he hadn’t experienced in ages.

“You look so familiar,” he said, flashing a practiced smile.

She tilted her head, a playful smile emerging. “That’s the oldest line in the book.”

Yet, she didn’t just walk away.

Their romance blossomed like a storm, sweeping them into candlelit dinners, secret kisses by the Seine, and whispered confessions over glasses of Bordeaux. She was unlike anyone he’d known before—warm yet enigmatic, tender yet distant. By the time he proposed just two months later, he was convinced that fate had handed him a second chance. A chance to move beyond the past, to love without the shadows that had once haunted him.

He took her back to England, to his sprawling estate on the outskirts of London. The grand mansion, with its soaring towers and twisting corridors, had previously belonged to his first wife. But she was gone now—dead. A tragic accident, nothing more. That’s how he explained it to everyone. That’s how he comforted himself.

At first, everything felt surreal. She glided through the house with effortless elegance, filling its emptiness with joy, music, and the scent of jasmine. But soon, the dream began to sour.

It started with little things—an offhand remark, a familiar mannerism. The way she clinked her fork against her plate before taking a bite. The precise rhythm of her fingers drumming on the leather armrest. A tune she hummed absentmindedly as she roamed the halls. His late wife used to do all these things.

He told himself it was merely coincidence. Perhaps a quirk of memory. Nothing more.

But the discomfort grew.

He began to notice other unsettling details, impossible ones. She spoke of things she had no right knowing—intimate, private aspects of his past marriage. She knew which drawer housed his cufflinks before she ever saw it. She identified the locked study at the end of the hall as belonging to his late wife, even though he had never mentioned it.

Then, the nights became different.

He would awaken in the dark to find her standing over him, her face barely illuminated by the moonlight. She would watch, silent and still. The first time it happened, he thought it was a figment of his imagination. The second time, he knew it was all too real.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice thick with slumber and a creeping sense of dread.

She remained silent. After an eternity, she simply turned and slipped back into bed, curling against him as though nothing had transpired.

By morning, she acted as if the night had been undisturbed. But he had seen her. He could feel her presence lingering, her breath barely disturbing the air.

The mansion, once a sanctuary, began to feel like a cage. The walls seemed to encroach closer, the hallways stretched endlessly, shadows pooling in corners where none should gather.

And then, one evening over dinner, she posed the question he had dreaded the most.

“How did she die? Your first wife?”

Her tone was gentle, curious, but it held an undercurrent—something sharp, akin to the edge of a knife.

His fingers tightened around his wine glass. “Why do you want to know?”

She tilted her head, a slow, knowing smile spreading across her face. “No particular reason.”

The unease clawed at him. The room felt too warm, the candlelight too harsh. “Who are you?” he rasped.

And in that flash, the truth dawned on him.

Her face, her gestures, the way she understood things only his late wife could have known—it all fell into place. He had seen her before, but not in Paris. Not on the night he believed fate had stepped in.

She had been in his late wife’s photo albums.

Not an unfamiliar face..

A friend. Her Best Friend !!! 

His wife’s closest confidante. The one she had shared her fears with, the one she had trusted with her deepest insecurities. The one she had confided in about his betrayals, his gambling, his debts. The life insurance policy that lingered over her thoughts.

It had never been a chance encounter in Paris. It had been a carefully crafted scheme. Executed with precision.

“What do you want?” he breathed, his voice barely a whisper.

She stood, wordless, extending a hand. The candlelight flickered against her dark eyes, and something about them—something bottomless and knowing—made his stomach drop. Still, as if compelled by something unseen, he rose. She led him through the halls, her touch cold against his wrist, guiding him down the twisting corridors he had once known so well.

Down.

The stairs creaked beneath them, the air growing damp and heavy with age. He knew where she was leading him even before they reached the last step.

The basement.

The room where it had happened.

His breath came in shallow gasps now, memories clawing at the edges of his mind. His first wife’s cries. The way she had stumbled, her hand grasping the railing too late. The sickening snap of her body against the stone floor below.

An accident.

That’s what he told himself.

She stopped before the door and turned to face him. Her fingers hovered over the handle, but she did not open it—not yet. She leaned in, close enough that he could feel the whisper of her breath against his ear.

“Justice,” she murmured.

And then, with a final, deliberate movement, she shoved him inside and shut the door.

The lock clicked into place, and darkness swallowed him…

Copyright (c) Pratik Majumdar, 2025. Any article, story, write-up cannot be reproduced in its entirety or in part, without permission. URL links can be used

The Stranger


It started like any ordinary day. He woke up to the gentle light of dawn streaming through the curtains, the warmth of her body curled against his. For a brief moment, he felt a sense of tranquility, as if everything in life was perfectly aligned—just as it ought to be. But when he opened his eyes and glanced at her, something changed within him. 

Something felt off.

She was still there, peacefully sleeping next to him, her hair spread out across the pillow. The sight of her should have been soothing, a source of comfort, but instead, an unsettling feeling crept in. It was the same sensation he had been wrestling with for weeks—vague, shapeless, like a shadow flitting just out of sight. Initially, it had been nothing more than a fleeting concern, easily dismissed. But now, it clung to him, enveloping him like a chilling fog.

He couldn’t quite identify this feeling, but it gnawed at his insides, as if the woman lying next to him, the one he had lived with and cherished for years, wasn’t who she appeared to be. His mind spiralled into confusing, unwanted thoughts, struggling to make sense of this inexplicable feeling.

Maybe it was just stress. Work had been piling up, pressure accumulating from all sides. He had been unfocussed, unable to concentrate, his thoughts constantly drifting. Perhaps he was simply overanalyzing things, allowing fatigue to play tricks on his mind. But no matter how often he reassured himself, he couldn’t shake the sense of dread that constricted around his chest every time he looked at her.

At first, he tried to dismiss it. He tried to bury the feeling deep down, trying to set it aside amidst the routines of daily life. They moved through their usual rituals—sharing coffee in the mornings, trading pleasantries, watching the same TV shows in the evenings. But the growing distance he felt toward her persisted. It wasn’t solely emotional; it was physical too—she felt like a stranger in his home, sharing his bed. A stranger intimately acquainted with every detail of his life.

One night, they sat on the couch, watching a movie together. She laughed at something on the screen, her eyes sparkling in the dim light. He studied her intently, attempting to dissect what was wrong, striving to see her as he always had, as Maya—his wife, his companion. Yet, the longer he gazed, the more uncertain he became. Her laughter, her movements, even the small gestures she made—none of it felt like the familiar comfort it once had. And yet, it was undoubtedly her.

“What’s bothering you?” she asked, noticing his intense gaze.

He shook his head hurriedly. “Nothing, just a bit tired.”

She smiled, and for a brief second, he almost believed it. But later that night, as she lay beside him in slumber, the doubts surged back with renewed intensity. Was it really her? Or was it someone else altogether?

The question burned in his mind, consuming his every thought. He couldn’t shake it. The more he tried to reason with himself, the deeper his uncertainty festered. He began to notice small shifts—details that once seemed insignificant but now felt monumental. The way she folded her clothes was different. The scent of her perfume seemed altered. Even her handwriting appeared slightly off when she left notes around the house.

One day, he found himself combing through old photographs—wedding pics, vacation memories, anything to reassure himself. But every image of her, smiling back from a past that felt distant, only deepened his confusion. It was her, wasn’t it? The same face, the same eyes. But now, those images felt like they belonged to someone else, someone lost to time.

Then the dreams began. They started off innocently enough—happy recollections of their life together. But soon, they morphed into darker visions. He dreamed of Maya’s twin sister, Sonia—the one who had tragically died years ago. In those dreams, Sonia was alive and standing in front of him, beaming that mischievous smile she always wore.

And then, a horrifying thought gripped him. What if the woman lying next to him wasn’t Maya at all? What if it was Sonia? The notion was ludicrous—Sonia was gone, she had passed away. He had mourned her absence. Yet once the thought took hold, it festered, spreading its roots deep within his mind like a sickness.

He became obsessed. The once-clear line between reality and fantasy began to blur. He started scrutinizing her every action, searching for clues—signs that he wasn’t imagining things. Her laughter, her voice, the way she touched him—everything began to feel foreign, as if she were an impostor wearing Maya’s guise.

He tried to confront her once, his voice shaking as he asked, “Do you ever think about Sonia?”

Her demeanor darkened immediately. “Why would you bring her up?”

“I don’t know,” he stammered, retreating. “I just… I’ve been thinking about her a lot lately.”

Her reaction was cool, distant, as though mentioning her sister was a topic best left unspoken. But the look in her eyes after that, a flash of something unreadable, sent chills down his spine.

The days dragged on, each one worse than the last. Sleep eluded him, and he began to avoid her, terrified of what he might say or what truths might slip out. The house that had once felt like their sanctuary now felt like a prison, its walls closing in around him. He struggled to breathe, to think clearly; it was slipping away.

And then it happened—the night everything shattered.

They sat together at the dinner table, the silence between them heavy and oppressive. He fixed his gaze on her from across the table, his heart racing in his chest, the question he needed to ask weighing heavily on his mind. He could no longer bear it—the doubt, the fear—it was driving him to the brink.

“I need to ask you something,” he finally managed, his voice just a whisper.

She glanced up, her eyes locking onto his. “What is it?”

He faltered, his throat parched and his hands unsteady. “Are you… Maya?”

She blinked, her expression unreadable. “What kind of question is that?”

“I—I don’t know what to think anymore,” he stuttered, his mind in freefall. “I’ve been wondering… what if you’re not Maya? What if you’re Sonia?”

The words lingered in the air, weighty and definitive.

For a brief moment, she was silent. Then, slowly, a smile crept onto her face—a chilling, knowing smile that sent a shiver through him.

“I knew you’d catch on eventually,” she replied softly.

His heart fell into his stomach. “What?”

Her eyes sparkled with a shadowy glint, something he couldn’t quite place. “Maya never had a clue, did she? She had no idea about our plans. But you—you always knew.”

He shook his head, struggling to make sense of her words.

“You were the one who approached me,” she went on, her tone laced with malice. “You wanted her out of the picture just as much as I did. And look where we are now.”

Memories pummeled him like a relentless wave. The affair. The scheme. The accident. He’d buried it all so deeply that even he had forgotten. But now, everything surged back—the shame, the deceit, the blood on his hands. He had taken Maya’s life. And now Sonia was here, wearing her face.

His thoughts raced, desperately trying to cling to something—anything—real, but the ground beneath him felt like quicksand. Her words reverberated in his mind, distorting into chaos until he couldn’t discern what was true anymore. The woman sitting across from him—was she his wife or her mirror image? His lover or his betrayal? Maya, or Sonia? Who was she really?

The world around him faded. His heart thundered in his chest, the room tightening around him, breath shallow and uneven. It couldn’t be true—it simply couldn’t be. Yet the truth—or what might have been the truth—had already emerged. And now, it was engulfing him, tearing apart the very fabric of his sanity.

The faces in the old photographs—were they Maya’s or Sonia’s? The body he’d cradled in his arms on those long nights, the voice that called to him—had it been the woman he adored or the one he had plotted with? He couldn’t decipher it any longer. The memories were intertwined, a twisted mess of deception and betrayal that he couldn’t unravel.

His vision swirled, the walls of the room dissolving into oblivion. Was she smiling at him? Or was it all a figment of his imagination? He could no longer trust anything—not even himself. The burden of his guilt pressed down on him, crushing him, suffocating him. The truth was unleashed—whatever it might’ve been—but it only dragged him deeper into despair.

He felt himself losing grip, reality slipping through his fingers as the room whirled around him. He didn’t know what was real anymore. All he understood was that he had torn apart everything—Maya, Sonia, his own self. He was ensnared in a maze of his own invention, with no escape in sight.

And as he crumpled to the ground, shattered and defeated, his mind fell away completely.

Copyright (c) Pratik Majumdar, 2025. Any article, story, write-up cannot be reproduced in its entirety or in part, without permission. URL links can be used

Ghosts at East End Cafe

The East End café had stood empty for years, its windows clouded with the memories of stale cigarette smoke and long-lost conversations. A flickering neon sign buzzed faintly overhead—OPEN—yet no living person ever ventured inside. 

But tonight, the spirits convened.

Buddy Holly occupied a corner booth, his glasses slipping down his nose as he fiddled with his espresso that would never be refilled. John Lennon wandered in next, hands stuffed into the pockets of a faded military jacket, whistling a melody that he hadn’t composed as yet. At the counter, Allen Ginsberg tapped his fingers against the chipped formica, muttering fragments of a forgotten poem, while Jack Kerouac reclined in his chair, arms crossed, gazing at the city lights flickering beyond the grimy windows.

“Well, gentlemen,” Lennon remarked, sliding into the booth across from Buddy. “The world’s crazier than when we left, isn’t it?”

“Always has had its madness,” Ginsberg replied, scratching his beard. “But it’s a different kind of chaos now. Quicker. Noisier. Less heart, more clamour.”

Kerouac laughed, tipping back an unseen drink. “And here we thought the Beat Generation was wild. Man, we were just a whisper compared to the roar of today.”

Buddy adjusted his glasses, shaking his head. “I’m not so sure, guys. I still hear love songs every now and then. Kids still fall for one another, right?”

Lennon grinned. “Oh, they fall for sure. But they tumble out just as fast. Love has a shorter lifespan now. Disposable, like everything else.”

Ginsberg leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “Love ain’t dead, John. It’s just hiding beneath a sea of screens, buried under all this connectivity that somehow makes folks lonelier than ever.” He sighed, rubbing his temples. “Sometimes I worry about all the words getting lost. All the poetry that goes unwritten because everyone’s too busy swiping.”

Kerouac exhaled, as if he could still taste whiskey in a throat he no longer possessed. “What happened to the journey, man? The open road? Now it’s all about getting to the destination. Click. Arrive. Done. Nobody gets lost anymore. And if they do, they just ask their phone how to find their way back. There’s no magic left.” 

Lennon smirked and shook his head at Jack’s statement. “And now, on top of it all, natural stupidity is being challenged by artificial intelligence—imagine that.”

A moment of silence settled over them. Outside, the city throbbed—cars honking, sirens blaring, a million hurried footsteps rushing nowhere in particular.

Buddy, ever the optimist, tapped his fingers against the tabletop. “Yeah, but music’s still here, isn’t it? Maybe it’s changed, but there’s still some kid out there with a cheap guitar, crooning about a broken heart. That’s gotta mean something.”

Lennon smiled. “Yeah, Buddy. It means we haven’t completely vanished yet.”

Ginsberg lifted an imaginary glass. “To the poets, the lovers, the dreamers. May they never disappear entirely.”

Kerouac raised his empty hands in a toast. “And to the journey. May someone still find it worth the wander.”

They sat in quiet contemplation for a while, listening to the city’s pulse, as if awaiting a sign that something of their world still remained in this one. And just for a fleeting moment—somewhere in the distance, a lone guitar strummed, a voice hummed an old love song, and the ghosts looked at each and smiled. 

Copyright (c) Pratik Majumdar, 2025. Any article, story, write-up cannot be reproduced in its entirety or in part, without permission. URL links can be used