Didnot turn 23🕊️

They say the old haveli sleeps early now. Its corridors, once swollen with voices, refuse to echo after dusk— as if the walls have learned the cost of listening. And somewhere in that silence lingers the memory of a girl who did not turn twenty-three. Nobody speaks of her directly. They only mention “an unfortunate night,” with a caution heavy enough to crush the meaning beneath it. Irony has strange manners— it tiptoes around truth while pretending to mourn it. She had dreams that smelled of chalk dust, textbooks, monsoon winds, and the kind of love one writes on the last page of a diary. Now those pages flutter endlessly in the locked room upstairs, as if still trying to finish her sentences. The villagers swear they see her sometimes— not as a ghost, but as an unfinished aspiration. A dupatta swaying when there is no wind. A half-lit lamp refusing to die. A pair of anklets humming an incomplete future. No one mentions the cruelty that erased her. They speak instead of fate, as if destiny itself had hands, as if her dreams were supposed to expire And she remains, not as a terror, but as an indictment— a reminder that every silenced person is a dream the world was too frightened to let live Peace✌️🕊️