Whispers in the dark

The night was quiet and still, wrapped in a blanket of darkness. Stars sparkled like tiny lanterns in the sky, and the moon cast a silver glow over everything. The air was cool, and the world seemed to pause, holding its breath in the silence.

"This is something new," said Meera.

The pages of the diary smelled like old rain and mystery.

"Mystery—that's totally my vibe," said Meera,
a 13-year-old girl who loved everything strange and unexplained.

They had just moved into an old house because of her father's job transfer. There were rumours that a girl had once lived in the house—a girl who used to play the piano every night. But one night, the music stopped. Days passed. The neighbors grew curious and went to check on her, but the door was locked.

"Maybe she went out somewhere," said a lady from the neighborhood.

"But no one saw her leave. She's a ghost," said another.

They broke open the door and quietly entered the house. They found the girl lying on the floor, with a chandelier collapsed beside her. They called the police, but the officers said the chandelier was new. There was no sign of an accident.
"Someone killed her," they whispered. "And that person might still be in the house."

But they never found anyone. No clues. Just rumors.

Because of those rumors, no one spoke to Meera much. She spent her time reading, escaping into pages. One day, while searching the old house library for a good book, she discovered a dusty old diary. It was bound in cracked brown leather, its pages yellowed and soft with age. A faint scent of lavender and dust clung to it. The faded ink seemed to whisper secrets from long ago.

She opened it carefully.

March 14, 1998
I saw her again today—by the old house. She never speaks, but I know she’s real. Mama says the house has been abandoned for years, but I still hear the piano at night. And whispers. I think the girl wants me to find something… but what?

Meera read a little every night. It felt like the diary wanted her to read it

March 17, 1998
The whispers were louder last night. They said my name. I’m not imagining it—I know I’m not. I tried telling Papa, but he just smiled and changed the subject. Why won’t they believe me?

March 20, 1998
I followed the sound to the garden. The roses were blooming, even though it’s not the season. Buried beneath one, I found a silver key. I don’t know what it opens, but it feels… important.

March 25, 1998
The girl by the well was crying today. Her face looked just like mine. I think… I think we’re connected somehow. She pointed to the attic before she vanished. I’m going there tomorrow, no matter what.

March 26, 1998
If anyone finds this—please understand—I didn’t mean to disappear. I just needed answers. I’m going to the attic now. If I don’t come back, maybe the key wasn’t meant for me.

Meera’s heart was racing.
“What happened to her?” she whispered.

She turned the page. It was blank.
But something fell out—a silver key.

Then she heard a whisper.
Then the sound of a piano.

And then—her name.

"Meera…"