The living room of the third-floor flat was an architectural marvel of unintentional torture. It was scrubbed to a clinical, blinding white by Vivaan's raw hands, smelling perpetually of lemon-scented disinfectant and the salt air blowing off the Arabian Sea. In any other context, it would have been a sanctuary—a sun-drenched space of recovery. But for the Rathore brothers, the room had become a tomb. The air was heavy, thick with a silence that didn't just lack sound; it felt like a physical weight, a pressurized vacuum that made the act of breathing feel like a transgression.

This was the "Silence of the Grave," where the ghosts weren't dead, but they weren't exactly living either. And at the center of this vacuum sat Ananya.