Arya lived under the sage’s roof, waking before the sun, serving him with unwavering devotion. Every day, he swept the floors, prepared simple meals, and tended to the sage’s every need. But beyond the mundane, his true purpose unfolded—deep meditation, powerful chants, and the silent mastery of energies unseen.

Yet, there was one mystery.

Every day, for exactly two hours, the sage disappeared.

No explanation. No clues. Just an unspoken rule—Arya was not to follow.

So, he obeyed.

Years passed like whispers in the wind. Seven years of discipline, of honing his mind and spirit, until the very air around him felt different.

Then, on an ordinary afternoon, something extraordinary happened.

Arya sat in deep meditation, his breath slow, his mind weightless. The world around him faded into silence.

Then—

A whisper.

Soft, distant, like the wind had learned to speak.

His eyes snapped open.

A figure flickered at the edge of the dimly lit room, a spirit—pale, translucent, trembling as if caught in some forbidden act.

Its voice wavered. “You… you can see me?”

Arya’s heartbeat slowed. He remained still, watching in quiet astonishment.

The spirit flinched. “Please… don’t capture me! I don’t harm anyone. I just want to stay a little longer. Let me be.”

A small smile touched Arya’s lips. “Then stay.”

The spirit hesitated, then bowed its head in gratitude before fading into the shadows.

By the time the sage returned, Arya was waiting for him, a quiet resolve in his eyes.

“It’s done, Master. I can see them. I can hear them. I have learned what I needed to.”

He lowered his head in respect. “Now, I will take my leave.”

The sage’s eyes darkened. “You haven’t learned the mantras to control them. You lack the power to send them back.”

Arya’s voice was steady. “I don’t need to send them back by force. I will guide them by fulfilling their wishes.”

A scoff. “Fool. What made you think that’s the right path?”

Arya’s breath came slow and deep. When he spoke again, there was something old in his voice—something that had been buried for years.

“The day we met, you captured a soul and forced it out of this world. That soul… was my father.”

The sage’s expression didn’t change, but Arya knew he had his full attention.

He took a step closer, his words carrying the weight of seven years.

“He had one small wish. Just one. To attend the temple festival before departing. He would have left on his own once it was fulfilled. But you didn’t let him. You forced him away… like he was nothing.”

The sage folded his arms. “This world is not your father’s property to linger in as he pleases.”

A bitter smile crossed Arya’s face. “And this world is not yours to decide who stays and who goes.”

A flicker of something flashed in the sage’s eyes.

Arya took another step forward, his voice like a quiet storm.

“That festival… was between him and God. If God didn’t want him there, He would have stopped him Himself. You had no right.”

Silence.

Tension thickened the air between them.

Arya held the sage’s gaze. “A soul can linger in this world as long as it does no harm. The day my father possessed that beggar… if it were me, I would have given him my own body so he could fulfill his wish.”

The sage’s jaw clenched. “You are walking a dangerous path, Arya. You will not succeed.”

Arya exhaled softly, as if embracing the weight of his choice. Then, with reverence, he knelt down and touched the sage’s feet for the last time.

“Then I will fail in my own way.”

Without another word, he turned and walked away.

He never looked back.

Returning home felt surreal.

The air carried old memories, the dust settling over forgotten moments. And yet, some things remained untouched.

Nandhini was there, waiting, just as he left her. Their bond was unchanged, as if time had stood still in their absence.

Together, they cleaned the house.

But Arya didn’t restore it as a home. No—this place had a new purpose.

A sacred space.

A place where lost souls could speak, where the dead could find peace before their final departure.

Years passed.

Word spread.

Some spirits needed nothing more than a whispered promise. Others clung to their last regrets, waiting for something—someone—to set them free.

Arya became that someone.

He guided them. Spoke to them. Sometimes, he even offered his own body, allowing them to finish their final tasks through him.

And yet, no matter how many souls he helped…

No matter how many wishes he fulfilled…

One regret never left his heart.

One shadow never faded.

The regret of not being able to fulfill his father’s last wish.

That regret became his fuel.

It burned within him, shaping him, driving him forward.

So that no soul—ever again—would be denied their final wish.