The footsteps stopped.
I held my breath.
My ears strained for any sound, any whisper, any sign of movement.
Nothing.
Just silence, heavy and pressing.
But I knew someone — something — had been there.
Back in my room, I stared at the torn notebook page.
"Burn the book."
Could I?
Every part of me wanted to listen.
But another part — the part that had seen the name "Ruhani," heard the tape, followed the trail — needed answers.
I couldn't stop now.
Later that evening, when the owners had gone out and the other tenants were quiet, I crept downstairs.
There was one door I hadn't dared open yet — the storage room beside the staircase.
It always remained locked.
Except tonight, it wasn't.
The door hung slightly ajar.
The smell hit me first — a mix of dust, mothballs, and old memories.
I stepped inside, switching on my phone flashlight.
Stacks of boxes towered in the corners. Old utensils, broken chairs, unused kitchenware.
And then, at the far end… a wooden trunk.
Half-covered in a tattered bedsheet.
My hands trembled as I pulled the cloth away.
The trunk creaked as I opened it.
Inside: clothes, faded photographs, a broken diary lock… and a student ID card.
I held it up to the light.
It read:
"Ruhani Sharma
Bachelor of Arts, Literature
University ID: 17LBT206"
There she was.
A girl not much older than me, smiling faintly at the camera. Same university. Same course.
Suddenly, the connection wasn't just eerie.
It was real.
Beneath the ID was another notebook — smaller, leather-bound.
Inside were short, desperate entries.
One read:
"There's something wrong with this place. I hear someone breathing when I sleep."
Another:
"The walls are thin. But she walks through them."
And finally:
"She likes stories. She finishes them. With us."
A loud knock echoed behind me.
I jumped.
The storage door had closed.
Hard.
I ran to it, yanked it open — but no one was there.
Only a single whisper in the hallway:
"Don't rewrite the ending."