Genre: Psychological Drama / Mystery
Character: Naina — A Housewife in Her Late 30s
Scene: A quiet apartment in Mumbai. Morning sunlight creeps through the curtains. The wall clock ticks loudly in the silence.
STORY:
Naina was always there—just not seen.
A devoted housewife, she moved through her days with ritualistic precision:
6:30 AM – Wake up.
6:45 AM – Tea for one.
7:00 AM – Dust the bookshelf that no one ever touches.
8:00 AM – Cook breakfast no one eats.
And so the hours passed—perfect, predictable, pointless.
Her husband, always busy. No kids. No visitors. Just her and the echo of a life that once felt full.
She kept the house spotless. Spoke to the plants like they were old friends. Played the old radio because silence scared her. And every day, after lunch, she would talk... to the wall.
Yes, the wall.
It started as a joke—a way to kill loneliness. But lately, she swore the wall listened.
One day, while cleaning, she said casually:
"You know, I think I’m disappearing."
And the wall responded. Not in words—but with a sound.
A faint tap. Three times.
Naina froze.
Her eyes widened.
She walked slowly toward the wall, pressed her ear against it.
Nothing.
The next day, she tried again.
"If you’re real… tap once."
Tap.
Naina dropped the duster.
Days turned into a new routine. She stopped watching TV. She stopped waiting for phone calls. She spoke only to the wall.
She told it about her dreams. Her fears. Her regrets. Her husband’s coldness. Her fading memory of what joy felt like.
And the wall? It listened. It responded. A tap here. A thump there. Sometimes even a shiver in the paint.
One day, she whispered:
"I think I know you. I think you are me."
And the wall cracked.
A thin, jagged line split down the center. Not wide enough to be dangerous. Just wide enough… to let her in.
From that day on, Naina wasn’t seen. Not by the milkman. Not by her husband, who barely noticed. Not even by the neighbors.
But inside the apartment, the wall stopped cracking.
The radio played soft music on its own.
And if you stood close enough to the living room wall—you might hear a woman laugh.
Just once.
And never again.
THE END
