The next morning, Aryan woke up late. The previous night's events had exhausted him, and his mind was filled with a strange uneasiness. He quickly got ready and decided to go downstairs to the dining hall for breakfast. The air of the mansion still carried the same dampness and melancholy, but things seemed less terrifying in the daylight.
In the dining hall, the old mistress sat alone, wrapped in a black shawl. The same sternness was on her face, but Aryan thought he saw deep hollows beneath her eyes, as if she, too, had not slept all night.
"Good morning, Madam," Aryan said softly.
The mistress looked up, her gaze resting on Aryan for a moment, and then she spoke in a slow, worn voice, "You were awake last night, weren't you? I knew it. The nights in this house are never peaceful."
Aryan hesitated. "I heard some sounds. Like... like someone was crying."
The mistress took a deep breath, "That is Madhavi. My daughter. She will not trouble you, as long as you stay within the limits." Her words were full of warning.
"Madhavi?" Aryan asked.
"It is a matter of the past," she cut him off. "Focus on your work, and do not try to pry into the past."
After breakfast, Aryan headed toward the mansion's library, whose door had been locked until yesterday. This was his main task—to digitize the rare manuscripts housed here. As soon as he opened the door, a strong rush of dust and the smell of old books hit him. The room was vast, with shelves reaching the ceiling, and a heavy oak table in the center.
He was about to start his work with his laptop and equipment when his eyes fell on a corner of the room. The plaster on one wall was strangely swollen, and a thin, black moisture was oozing from the swollen part. As Aryan got closer, he heard a very slow, muffled sob emanating from that spot. The sound was so faint that even a slight gust of wind would drown it out.
He placed his hand on the wall. That section felt colder than the rest, and his palm registered the sensation of a dried tear. He was frightened, but his curious mind held him back.
He immediately went to the hall and looked for the maid, Meena. "Meena, look at that wall in the library, where the plaster is ruined. Why is it... why is it wet?"
Meena's face turned pale. She lowered her eyes and whispered almost inaudibly, "That wall... never touch it, Sir. Something is... something is 'buried' there." Meena hurried away without saying anything more.
'Buried'? The word echoed in Aryan's mind. Was the mistress's daughter, Madhavi, behind this wall?
Aryan returned to the library. Standing near the swollen plaster, he felt the air temperature drop again, just as it had last night. Suddenly, he saw a faint shadow moving across the top of the table, at the far end of the library.
The shadow paused for a moment, its shape like a thin, tall woman, and then it disappeared among the bookshelves.
Aryan's heart was pounding. He gathered his courage and took steps toward the bookcase. Reaching the spot where he had last seen the shadow, he found no one. But there, an ancient, leather-bound book was protruding from the shelf, as if someone had hastily put it back just now.