Ruhani Sharma.
The name now had a face. A voice. A story.
And I had proof that she was real — not just a whisper, not just a dream.
Her ID card burned a hole in my pocket as I climbed the stairs, determined to confront someone — anyone — who knew more than they were telling me.
The owner was sitting in the front verandah, sipping tea. His wife stood near the garden, trimming a plant that looked long dead.
I walked straight up to him and placed the ID on the table.
He froze.
His hand tightened around the cup.
A long pause.
Then he said, "Where did you find this?"
"In the storage room. In a trunk full of her things."
Still, he didn't speak.
"You told me nothing happened here before. You said nothing about a girl named Ruhani living in this room."
He looked down, eyes heavy with something between guilt and fear.
"She wasn't supposed to be here," he said.
"What does that mean?"
"She came… without official records. A favor. No paperwork. Her parents had… issues. She just needed a place to stay."
His wife appeared behind him now, her face pale, hands covered in dirt.
"She was quiet. Too quiet," she said softly. "Always writing. Always watching."
"What happened to her?"
They exchanged a glance.
Then he said, "One day, she just… left."
I stared at him.
"No. She didn't. If she had, you wouldn't have her things locked away. You wouldn't hide her name. You wouldn't lie."
He looked at the ground.
And whispered, "We couldn't stop it."
I stepped back, shaken.
"Stop what?"
His wife's voice trembled.
"The story. The thing in the room. She wrote too much. Dug too deep. Then it started writing back."
The man stood up suddenly, eyes darting to the house like something was listening.
"You should leave this place. Burn that book. Forget Ruhani."
"No."
"Then you'll be next."
That night, I returned to my room and sat by the window.
The red book lay open, untouched — but no longer silent.
A new page had appeared.
Blank, except for one line:
"Chapter 10: Her curiosity becomes the cause."