My entire family is happy for my father — at the age of 60, he remarried a woman 30 years younger. But on the wedding night, the sound of crying silenced us all…

My father’s name is Rajendra. This year, he turned 60. My mother passed away from cancer when my sister and I were in college. Since then, he has been alone for over twenty years — neither dating nor remarrying — just focusing on raising his two children.

In Jaipur, everyone in the family often advised him:

“Rajendra, you’re still very healthy. Get married again. Living alone is very lonely.”

But he would just smile softly and say:

“I’ll think about it once both my children are settled.”

And he truly kept his word.

When my sister got married and I got a stable job in Delhi, my father finally had time for himself.

One day, at the beginning of winter, he called us, his voice excited like that of a young man:

“I’m thinking of getting married. Her name is Meera.”

My sister and I were stunned.

She was only 30 — thirty years younger than my father.

She worked as an accountant at a company near my father’s house, was divorced, and had no children.

They met in a yoga class for middle-aged people in Jaipur.

At first, there were just light conversations, which slowly grew into understanding.

We were worried, afraid she might take advantage of him. But after a few meetings, seeing that Meera was gentle, well-mannered, and honest with him, we felt reassured.

The wedding took place on a spring morning, in the courtyard of an old house on the outskirts of Jaipur.

No grand celebrations — just simple meals with my father’s close relatives and old friends.

Meera wore a pink saree, her hair tied up, her face soft like the morning sun.

My father was nervous but kept smiling the whole time, just like a young man getting married for the first time.

That evening, after everyone had cleaned up, my sister joked:

“Dad, don’t make so much noise, there are both young and old in the house.”

He laughed and waved his hand:

“You’re talking nonsense.”

Then he took Meera to the bridal room — my parents’ old room.

This was the very room where he and my mother had lived for decades, where she had taken her last breaths.

We had advised him to renovate it, but he had only changed the curtains.

“Keeping it as it is gives me more comfort,” he said.

About an hour after everyone had gone to sleep, I suddenly heard something from the edge of the hallway.

At first, I thought it was a cat, but then…

A scream — clear, frightened, filled with terror.

I jumped up and ran with my sister toward my father’s bedroom door.

From inside came a scream:

“No! Please don’t… don’t do this!”

I pushed the door open.

I was speechless at the sight before my eyes..

When I pushed the door open, the old brass handle struck the wall with a hollow clang.
Inside, the lamp flickered, casting long, trembling shadows on the faded peach walls.

My father sat on the floor — pale, drenched in sweat, clutching his chest.
Meera was huddled in a corner of the bed, her eyes wide with fear, her saree slightly torn at the shoulder.

“Papa!” I rushed to him, helping him up, but his trembling fingers pointed toward the mirror on the opposite wall.
His voice broke, hoarse and fragile:

“She was… here. Your mother. Standing… right there.”

The room fell into eerie silence.

I followed his gaze — the old mirror that had hung there since my childhood. Its wooden frame was chipped, its glass cloudy from time.
For a moment, nothing.
Only the sound of the ceiling fan groaning above us.

But then Meera whispered, her voice quivering:

“I saw her too…”

Everyone froze.

“She was standing near the bed,” Meera continued, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Wearing a white saree… looking at me with so much pain. I thought it was my imagination, but when your father called her name—”
Her words caught in her throat.

My sister and I exchanged a glance — a mix of fear, disbelief, and something else… something ancient that homes in Jaipur seem to hold in their walls.

That night, none of us slept.

We moved my father to the living room, made him lie down on the couch. The local doctor came, checked his pulse, and said it was just a shock — “perhaps from overexcitement, or something emotional.”

But I knew it wasn’t that simple.

The next morning, I entered the old bedroom again. The air felt heavier, colder. A faint trace of sandalwood incense — my mother’s favorite — lingered in the air.
And on the dresser… was her wedding photo.
It had fallen face-down on the table sometime during the night.

Later, over breakfast, Meera spoke softly:

“I think she’s angry with me.”

My sister, always the rational one, replied, “It’s just your nerves. You were scared. It was your first night here, that’s all.”

But Meera shook her head. “No. I could feel her. She wasn’t trying to scare me… she looked hurt.”

For days afterward, the house seemed different. Lights flickered at odd hours. The air turned inexplicably cold in that one room. My father stopped going near it altogether.

Finally, on the seventh night after the wedding, Meera came to me and said quietly,

“I want to talk to her.”

I thought she had gone mad — but the look in her eyes was clear, calm, resolute.

So we went together — my sister, Meera, and I — back into that old room.

She lit a small diya lamp, placed it on the windowsill, and bowed her head.
Then, in a trembling whisper, she said:

“Auntie… I’m not here to replace you. I just want to take care of him — the man you loved. Please, if you’re here… let me stay beside him. Let him be at peace.”

The flame flickered violently. For a moment, it nearly went out — then steadied, glowing brighter than before.
A faint, soft scent of jasmine filled the room.

Meera closed her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered.

From that night on, the house was quiet again. The mirror stayed still. The air no longer felt cold.

But my father — he never entered that room again.
He converted the guest room into their new bedroom, and the old one… became something of a shrine.

Every evening, Meera would place a fresh marigold flower by the mirror before going to bed.

And though none of us ever spoke of it again, there were nights when I passed by that old door and heard faint humming — the same lullaby my mother used to sing.

Not haunting. Not angry.
Just… watching over.

Months passed after that night. The house in Jaipur slowly found its rhythm again.
My father smiled more, Meera began tending to the garden, and even my sister stopped glancing nervously at the old bedroom door each time she visited.

It felt as though peace had finally returned.

Until the monsoon season came.

One evening, as thunder rolled across the city and rain lashed against the veranda, I got a call from Meera. Her voice was trembling.

“Can you come home? Something’s… not right with your father.”

When I arrived, the power had gone out. Only the faint glow of candles illuminated the living room. My father sat silently in his chair, staring toward the dark hallway that led to that room.

“Papa?” I asked.

He didn’t look at me.
Instead, he whispered,

“The mirror… she’s back.”

I turned. The bedroom door was slightly ajar — and from inside came a faint humming sound. Soft. Familiar.

The same lullaby.

I took a candle and stepped closer. The smell of jasmine thickened, mingling with the damp air. As I pushed the door open, the flame flickered wildly, almost extinguished.

There, in the reflection of the old mirror, stood a faint outline — not of a ghostly woman this time, but of a child. A little girl, no more than eight years old, clutching a small wooden doll.

I blinked.
The image vanished.

Behind me, Meera’s voice quavered.

“I’ve been seeing her for weeks now… not every night, just when it rains. She doesn’t scare me. She looks sad — like she’s waiting.”

That night, none of us spoke much. But Meera couldn’t sleep. She sat by the window, the rain pounding outside, the candlelight trembling on her face.

At dawn, she came to me, holding an old, yellowed envelope.

“I found this behind the dresser yesterday,” she said. “I think your mother wanted us to find it.”

The envelope had my father’s name written in my mother’s delicate handwriting.
My hands shook as I unfolded the letter.

“Rajendra,” it began,

“If you are reading this, it means you have finally chosen to live again — and for that, I am glad.
But there is something I never told you. Before the illness took hold, I was pregnant. I never had the chance to share the news… our baby did not survive. I buried the memory quietly, because I did not want you or the children to carry that sorrow.
If one day you remarry, do not feel guilty. But remember — there will always be one small soul watching over this house, waiting to be seen.”

By the time I finished reading, tears blurred the words. My father covered his face, silent sobs shaking his shoulders.

Meera looked toward the mirror, her voice barely a whisper:

“It wasn’t your mother haunting us. It was the child… the one she lost.”

That evening, Meera placed a small doll and a bowl of milk by the mirror — an offering to a spirit child, following an old Rajasthani tradition.

And for the first time in months, the house felt warm again. The heavy air lifted. Even my father, though still sorrowful, said that when he walked past the mirror that night, he felt something like a small hand brushing against his — not cold, not ghostly, just gentle.

A week later, my father and Meera decided to move to a smaller home outside Jaipur, leaving the old house behind.
But before locking the door for the last time, Meera turned back and whispered softly:

“You can rest now, little one. Your family remembers you.”

The wind stirred, carrying the scent of jasmine through the corridor — and the mirror, untouched for years, reflected nothing but sunlight.

The haunting was over.
But every monsoon, when the rain begins to fall, my father still lights a candle and hums a lullaby to the unseen — for the wife he loved, and the child who finally found peace