My name is Ananya, and I am twenty-nine years old, the only daughter in the family. My mother passed away three years ago in a road accident. Since that day, my father has become much more withdrawn. He rarely spoke, rarely smiled, and developed a very strange habit: every night, before going to bed, he would quietly go to the family altar, take down Mom’s framed photo, and bring it into his private room.

At first, I simply thought he missed her so much that he took her photo to bed. I felt pity for him and didn’t feel comfortable asking too many questions. But day by day, my father’s actions became more unsettling. He started locking his bedroom door tightly, even installing an extra latch inside, as if afraid someone would intrude upon some secret. I began to feel uneasy.

I live with my father in a two-story house on the outskirts of Jaipur. Since Mom passed away, I haven’t married, partly because I felt sorry for my lonely father, and partly… I just had a feeling that something wasn’t right in this house.

I remember once, around midnight, I woke up to use the restroom and heard murmuring coming from my father’s room. The door was closed then, and the light was off. I pressed my ear against the wall, trying to hear what he was saying. There was clearly a dialogue, but only my father’s voice, sometimes whispering, sometimes snapping as if scolding.

“Don’t say another word… I’ve done my best… Don’t make me…”

I was terrified and quickly returned to my room, pulling the blanket tight, trying to ward off the terrifying thoughts. The next morning, I deliberately woke up early, waited for Dad to leave his room, and then crept in. The door was still carefully locked; I had to use a hairpin and it took a long time to open the extra latch. Stepping inside, the room was strangely tidy, the air chilling even though it was sunny outside. Mom’s photo had been placed back on the bedside table. I looked closely; it was still Mom’s gentle face, nothing seemed unusual.

But when I touched the frame, I felt a loose section on the back. Curious, I peeled it open. Inside, instead of the usual hard paper or cardboard, there was a small, empty compartment. And in that empty compartment, there was a tiny USB drive.

My heart pounded. I quickly pulled out the USB, hid it in my pocket, then carefully reassembled the photo frame, and locked Dad’s room door before he returned.

Back in my own room, I trembling inserted the USB into my laptop. There was only one video file, unnamed. I clicked on it, and the scene that unfolded made my blood run cold.

It was a video recorded from a car’s dashcam. The footage showed a familiar village road, the very road leading to our house. In the video, Dad’s car was moving, and then… a figure suddenly darted out from the side of the road. Tires shrieked, and the next scene showed my mother lying motionless on the road, blood pooling around her.

My father, in the video, stepped out of the car. He didn’t call for an ambulance. He just stared at Mom, his face devoid of emotion. Then he looked around, ensuring no one was present, and then… he dragged my mother to the side of the road, covered her with an old tarp, and drove away.

The video ended there.

I collapsed, trembling all over. No! It couldn’t be true! My father… the father I had always loved and trusted… was the one who caused my mother’s death? And he had hidden this horrifying truth for three years?

Now, Dad’s midnight whispers, “Don’t say another word… I’ve done my best… Don’t make me…,” became clearer and more horrifying than ever. He wasn’t talking to Mom’s photo; he was talking to his own conscience, to the haunting guilt. Mom’s photo wasn’t where he sought comfort, but where he confronted the ghost of his past.

I held the USB drive, tears streaming down my face. What should I do? Report him to the police? Or keep this terrifying secret and live in fear with a father who now felt alien and terrifying to me?

I didn’t sleep that entire night. I stared at the laptop screen, the video replaying in my mind. I recalled the times Dad talked about Mom’s accident, his voice trembling, his eyes full of sorrow. I had believed him, had pitied him. But now, it was all a lie.

Finally, at dawn, I made a decision. I couldn’t live with such a horrifying secret. I couldn’t let a murderer, even if he was my father, live outside the law and pretend nothing had happened.

I copied the video to another USB drive, then used a blade to destroy the original one. After that, I called a lawyer friend, my voice hoarse.

The next day, the police came to the house. My father was completely stunned when he saw them and when I presented the evidence. He didn’t deny it. His face was ashen, his eyes vacant. He just looked at me, a desperate look, as if wanting to utter a final apology.

The trial was swift. My father was convicted of culpable homicide and received a long sentence. The two-story house became empty. I knew I had done the right thing, but my heart still ached. I had lost both my father and my mother in the same accident, albeit in different ways.

My life afterwards was a long struggle with pain and harsh reality. I sold the house, moved to another city, and tried to rebuild my life. Occasionally, I still dreamt of Mom, her gentle smile just like in the photo. But there were no more murmurs or haunting feelings. Perhaps, now, Mom truly rested in peace. And so did I.