Morning arrived softly, its light spilling across the valley like liquid gold—gentle, soothing, as though the mountains themselves were trying to calm the lingering unease within us. From the window, thin strands of mist rose from the river below, fading quietly into the pale morning sky. For a brief moment, the world seemed untouched by darkness.
The air was sharp and clean, carrying the scent of pine and distant snow. Each breath felt refreshing, almost healing. After the suffocating tension of the night before, even breathing felt like relief.
Breakfast was served with quiet elegance. Kashmiri nun chai glowed in soft pink tones within delicate cups, steam rising slowly from its surface. Its salty warmth was unusual, yet comforting. We tore into fresh girda bread—crispy on the outside, soft within—dipping it into harissa that dissolved richly on the tongue. Then came sweet shirmal, its saffron fragrance balancing the meal, leaving behind a gentle sweetness.
For a while, we allowed ourselves to simply be—four friends gathered at a wooden table, sunlight warming our backs, laughter returning naturally. The valley seemed to remind us that beauty and fear can exist side by side, neither canceling the other.
But beneath that calm, something stirred quietly.
An awareness we didn’t voice.
We were not alone in whatever this had become.
We avoided speaking of it, almost instinctively, as though giving it words might bring it closer. Instead, we set out into the hills with our guide, Adeel. He moved with ease, greeting locals along narrow paths, pointing out old walnut trees and distant shepherd routes. He spoke warmly about winters blanketing the valley in snow, about lively weddings, about generations who had lived their lives beneath these mountains.
The landscape stretched endlessly in shades of green and silver. The sky felt close, almost within reach. For a time, everything felt alive and peaceful.
Then something shifted.
Adeel was mid-sentence, describing an old trade path, when he suddenly slowed. His posture stiffened.
He stopped.
We nearly walked into him.
The color drained slightly from his face, replaced by a guarded expression. His eyes fixed on a distant cluster of trees.
“What happened?” Amit asked quietly.
Adeel hesitated. The wind brushed through the grass, almost urging silence.
“It’s nothing,” he said at first.
But it clearly wasn’t.
A strange heaviness settled around us. The birds that had been circling moments ago were gone. Even the breeze seemed to pause.
When we insisted, promising not to take his words lightly, he finally gave in. He made us swear not to treat what he was about to say as mere rumor, as if it carried weight beyond a simple story.
Then he pointed.
About half a kilometer away lay a stretch of land nestled between uneven hills. It looked ordinary—wild, green, unremarkable.
But it felt different.
“That place,” he said quietly, “holds a past people avoid speaking about.”
His voice lowered as he told us—of British officers, enslaved workers, cruelty, rebellion, and disappearance.
Buried alive.
The words alone were enough.
As he spoke of cries that people claimed could still be heard, even during the day, and of shadows appearing where none should be, a stillness settled over the hills. The sunlight itself seemed to dim.
And then—
Something moved.
From the edge of my vision, I caught it.
A black cat emerged from behind a rock, silent and fluid. It stopped, its body still, its gaze fixed—not on us, but on that distant land.
None of us spoke.
Slowly, it turned its eyes toward us.
There was recognition there.
Then, without hesitation, it ran.
Straight toward the forbidden ground.
It moved quickly through the grass and vanished beyond the rise.
The moment struck all of us at once.
Diljeet’s expression hardened. Peter exhaled slowly. Abdul instinctively reached for the talisman beneath his shirt.
This was no ordinary animal.
The connection—from Nawabshah to Lahore, and now here in Kashmir—tightened like an invisible thread.
Still, we carried on with the day. The waterfall greeted us with raw force, water crashing against rock in a dazzling display. Cool mist brushed against our faces. Its energy pushed back against the unease creeping in.
We laughed—perhaps louder than necessary. We dipped our hands into the icy water. We took photographs, forcing smiles against the vast beauty, trying to hold onto something real.
And yet, even there, I felt it—
A presence.
Not aggressive.
Not pursuing.
Just… existing.
By the time we returned to the guesthouse, hunger had replaced the tension. Lunch was waiting—rich, inviting. Rogan Josh shimmered in deep red gravy. Yakhni carried a delicate aroma of fennel and cardamom. Gushtaba rested in a smooth, creamy sauce. Kebabs arrived sizzling, releasing fragrant smoke.
The meal was bold and grounding—full of life.
For a while, we focused only on eating, on being present.
But as evening settled and we gathered again, holding cups of warm kahwa, the conversation returned to it.
To her.
The woman in white.
The cat.
The whispers near the crematorium.
The footsteps outside our door.
Each piece began to connect, refusing to remain separate.
“She hasn’t hurt us,” Abdul said quietly.
“Not even once,” Amit added.
“She only reacts,” Peter observed. “When we search. When we try to understand.”
Diljeet leaned back, eyes distant. “Then she wants something known.”
The firelight flickered along the wooden walls, shadows stretching like silent witnesses.
And then it became clear.
This wasn’t random.
This was deliberate.
She had followed us—across cities, through checkpoints, across regions—not to harm, but to guide.
The land Adeel had shown us.
The buried workers.
The forgotten cruelty.
It was no coincidence.
“She brought us here,” I said slowly.
No one disagreed.
Outside, the valley sank into darkness. The mountains stood like ancient guardians, their peaks lost in the night. Somewhere far away, a faint sound carried through the wind.
Not a cry.
Not a call.
Just something too soft to name.
We sat in silence as the realization settled in.
This spirit had not attached itself out of anger.
It had chosen us.
And whatever truth lay hidden beneath those hills—
Was waiting for us to uncover it.
ns216.73.216.98da2This work is my own concept and I have done enormous amount of hardwork on it. However the grammar is corrected with AI because it is not my native language.
and then Add to home screen.