Prajwal slowly bent down and picked up the bouquet.
The black roses crumbled at her touch, turning to ash that blew away with the icy wind. But the ribbon—deep burgundy velvet, old but untattered—remained. It matched the pouch Akshara had taken perfectly.
"Who leaves black roses at a hotel door?" Apurva muttered, hugging herself against the chill.
"They weren't left," Swara said, her voice low. "They were delivered."
A sense of unease settled again. It was as if just when they'd thought they could breathe—she had arrived.
"Who's M.W.?" Swarali whispered, her eyes scanning the silent road beyond the steps. "And what does she want?"
Prajwal looked back at the others. "We're not going to find that answer sitting here."
Everyone followed her back into the hotel. This time, they headed not for the library, but to the basement—the one place they hadn't fully explored.
The hotel staff avoided the basement. It was always locked. But Akshada, confidently flipping her ponytail, pulled a pin from her hair.
"Leave it to me," she grinned, kneeling at the door.
In under a minute, the lock clicked open.
They stepped into darkness.
The air was thick, dry, filled with the scent of dust and something bitter.
The basement wasn't just a storage room—it was a time capsule. Old photographs, furniture covered in white sheets, a cracked piano in the corner. Cobwebs clung to the ceiling like lace. But one thing stood out: a large trunk with iron clasps and an engraving that read Winters Estate.
"This belonged to Eleanor," Swara said. "Her maiden name was Winters."
Prajwal knelt beside the trunk and opened it slowly. Inside were faded journals, old clothes, and at the very bottom—a portrait. A woman in a high-collared black dress, eyes sharp, lips pressed in a near-smile.
"She doesn't look like Eleanor," said Rutuja.
Prajwal turned the frame over. On the back, scrawled in ink:
"Margaret Winters. 1871."
"M.W.," Akshara whispered, paling.
"She's not Eleanor's daughter," Swara murmured. "She's her sister."
A loud thud echoed across the basement.
Then, a low growl of wind—and the door slammed shut.
Anushka and Srushti rushed to it, but it wouldn't budge. The lights flickered and dimmed until only the portrait seemed to glow faintly.
Then… a voice. Calm, poised, and venom-laced.
"She left me. She stole everything and left me to rot in shadows."
Prajwal stood slowly, holding the portrait. "You're Margaret."
A woman's figure began to materialize near the piano—tall, stern, with a velvet ribbon around her neck.
"She was always the favorite. Eleanor. The pretty one. The heir. But I loved someone too. And she took him from me."
Her voice cracked, eyes flaring. "I gave her everything. And she buried me."
Margaret's ghost was different. There was no pain like Ophelia's. This was rage. Long buried. Carefully preserved.
"I haunted her," she whispered, "but she escaped. Even in death, she left me behind."
Everyone backed away except Prajwal.
"You're not angry at us," she said, "you're angry at her. But we're not her."
Margaret's gaze flicked toward her. "You opened the locket. You disturbed my silence."
Prajwal held up the locket. "Tell me who gave it to you. Who was he?"
The ghost was quiet. Then—softly—she began to hum a lullaby. Her form grew clearer, and suddenly they saw: in her other hand, she held a photograph. A man in military uniform, smiling.
Swara gasped. "That's the same man in Eleanor's drawing room."
"They both loved the same man," Prajwal whispered. "But he married Eleanor."
Margaret's eyes blazed. "No. He chose me. But she lied. Said I was unstable. Had me locked away. And when he came back for me... she told him I was dead."
Tears welled in her ghostly eyes. "She buried me in silence."
A sudden wind tore through the basement, the portrait of Margaret shattering. The candles blew out.
And just before darkness took over completely, Margaret's voice whispered:
"You opened the door. Now you must close it."
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