Chapter 5 – The Man in the Painting

Aanya’s breath caught in her throat. The man from the painting was standing right in front of her—alive, real, and close enough that the beam of his torch stung her eyes.

It was impossible. That painting upstairs looked decades old. Yet here he was, unchanged, his features eerily the same: sharp cheekbones, dark eyes that seemed to hold centuries in them, and a faint scar cutting across his jawline.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said quietly. His voice was low, almost kind, but threaded with warning.

Aanya pressed back against the wall, her torch clutched uselessly at her side. “Who… who are you?” she whispered.

His expression didn’t change. “You already know.”

Her pulse hammered. “The painting. Upstairs. That was you.”

He tilted his head, as though deciding whether to confirm or deny. Finally, he said, “Time doesn’t pass the same way in this house. What you’ve seen is only one of many truths.”

The words tangled in her mind. What did that even mean?

She glanced at the chest where the red thread ended. “Why is my name in those letters? Why do you know me?”

For the first time, his eyes softened. “Because this story began long before you were born. And because you are part of it whether you choose to be or not.”

Her skin prickled. Part of it?

The storm outside cracked louder, rattling the windowpanes. Shadows seemed to stretch across the hidden room, wrapping around the shelves, the objects, the photograph of her mother.

The man stepped further in, his presence filling the small chamber. He set his torch down on the desk, its glow flickering against the carved symbols on the door.

“Your mother came here once,” he said. “She tried to seal it away. But she failed. And now…” His gaze fell on Aanya, heavy, unflinching. “Now it falls to you.”

Aanya shook her head. “No. My mother has nothing to do with this place. She’s—she’s just my mom. She never—”

“She never told you?” His voice was sharp now, cutting. “Never told you who she was before she built the life you know?”

Her stomach dropped. The photograph on the desk. Her mother standing right where she was now, younger, raw, desperate.

“She… she was here,” Aanya whispered.

“Yes.” The man’s tone softened again. “She wanted to keep you safe. But she also wanted to forget. And forgetting has consequences.”

He walked to the chest, crouched, and ran his hand over the lock. The red thread pulsed faintly under his touch, as if alive.

“This is what she left behind. And this is what you must open.”

“I don’t have the key,” Aanya said quickly.

“You will.” His eyes flickered toward her pocket, where the letters lay folded. “The thread doesn’t lead by chance. It leads with purpose.”

Her fingers brushed the envelope inside her pocket, crinkling the paper. A strange certainty filled her chest—terrifying yet undeniable. She was meant to be here.

But why her?

The man straightened, studying her with unsettling calm. “The house has chosen you, Aanya. Just as it chose her. Just as it chose me.”

Her throat tightened. “What does that mean? Why us?”

Before he could answer, a sound shattered the tense silence—a sharp crash from upstairs, followed by the unmistakable slam of a door.

Aanya’s heart jumped. “Someone else is here?”

The man’s eyes darkened. “You shouldn’t have come alone.”

He grabbed her arm—not roughly, but firmly enough to anchor her in place. “Listen to me. Whatever happens next, do not run. Running makes it worse.”

Her voice trembled. “Makes what worse?”

The overhead floorboards groaned as if under a heavy weight. The air thickened, pressing against her lungs. Even the storm seemed to quiet, as though the house itself was listening again.

The man leaned close, his whisper urgent. “The house remembers everything. And it does not forgive.”

Aanya’s torch flickered, the beam sputtering. For a second, the room plunged into shadows.

When the light steadied again, the man was gone.

Her chest seized. She spun, scanning the room—the desk, the shelves, the chest. Empty. No trace of him.

Only the photograph of her mother stared back at her, silent and accusing.

And the red thread, still glowing faintly at the chest.