The scent of jasmine wafted through the air, mingling with the lively chatter. My sister, Meera’s, wedding took place on a gentle autumn evening, under the glow of bright red lanterns strung across the garden. Everyone said it was a perfect day: the bride was resplendent in a white lehenga embroidered with flowers, and the groom—Rohan, a promising young architect—wore a warm smile that instantly endeared him to everyone. But amidst the happy faces and well-wishes, I felt a chilling presence, as if something was lurking in the shadows, waiting for its moment to erupt.

I stood quietly in a corner of the garden, holding a glass of wine, my eyes on my eight-year-old son, Aryan. The boy sat silently on a chair, his large, round eyes staring at the crowd, but uttering not a word. Aryan had been mute since birth, a congenital condition that meant he had never made a sound beyond vague gurgles. I was accustomed to my son’s silence, but today, his gaze was stranger than usual. He wasn’t looking at the bride, the groom, or the vibrant cakes on the banquet table. He was staring directly at Rohan, with an expression I couldn’t decipher—as if he were looking right through him.

“Sister, what are you thinking, standing here so lost?” Meera approached, pulling me from my thoughts. My sister was radiant, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling with happiness. I smiled, trying to dismiss the uneasy feeling.

“I was just thinking… you truly are the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen,” I replied, gently clinking my glass against hers. Meera laughed heartily, pulling me into a warm embrace. But as I looked up, I caught Aryan’s gaze, still fixed on Rohan. A shiver ran down my spine.

The wedding reception proceeded smoothly. Guests raised their glasses, love songs filled the air, and the red lanterns made the entire garden seem to float in a dream. Rohan, with his elegant appearance and deep, warm voice, continuously told humorous stories, making everyone burst into laughter. He recounted the first time he met Meera at a coffee shop, when she spilled a whole cup of water on his shirt, and how they both burst out laughing like children. “From that moment, I knew she was my destiny,” Rohan said, his eyes tenderly gazing at Meera. Guests applauded, and I could only offer a strained smile. For some reason, every word he spoke made me feel as if I were listening to a story that was too perfectly orchestrated.

As night deepened, the reception moved into the dancing portion. I sat beside Aryan, my hand on his shoulder, and quietly asked: “Are you happy? Today is Auntie Meera’s wedding.” Aryan didn’t answer, only shook his head, his eyes still glued to Rohan, who was twirling Meera on the dance floor. I sighed, telling myself I was probably being overly sensitive. But then, suddenly, Aryan gripped my hand tightly. His small hand trembled, and I felt a strange strength, as if he was trying to convey something.

“What’s wrong, Aryan?” I whispered, leaning closer to him. But Aryan didn’t look at me. He suddenly stood up, walking out into the crowd, his small steps decisive. People began to notice, the music gradually fading. I frantically ran after him, calling his name, but he didn’t stop. He walked directly to Rohan and Meera, his eyes strangely bright, as if controlled by something beyond my understanding.

And then, something no one expected happened.

My son, mute since birth, who had never spoken a single word, suddenly opened his mouth. His voice was clear and crisp, but chillingly cold. He pointed directly at Rohan, who stood frozen beside Meera, and shouted: “Don’t let him escape! He’s a murderer!”

The entire garden fell silent. The music stopped abruptly. Stunned eyes turned towards Aryan, then shifted to Rohan. Meera’s face paled; she released Rohan’s hand and stepped back. “Aryan, what are you saying?” she stammered, her voice trembling. But Aryan didn’t look at her. He kept pointing at Rohan, his eyes burning. “He killed someone! I saw it! I saw him in my dream!”

I rushed to embrace Aryan, my heart pounding. “Aryan, calm down, what are you saying?” I almost screamed, but within me, a terrifying feeling was rising. Not because of Aryan’s words, but because of his voice – a voice I had never heard before. How could a congenitally mute child speak so clearly? And why was he pointing at Rohan, a man he had never met before the wedding day?

Rohan let out a laugh, but it was forced, barely concealing his awkwardness. “Oh, goodness, the boy must be imagining things. Kids, they dream up all sorts of nonsense.” He tried to reach out and touch Meera’s shoulder, but she recoiled, her eyes full of suspicion. The crowd began to murmur. A few people looked at Rohan with probing eyes, while I could only hug Aryan tightly, feeling his small body tremble.

“Sister, do you believe me?” Meera turned to me, her voice almost pleading. “Rohan can’t… He can’t have done that, right?”

I didn’t answer immediately. In my mind, a flurry of questions swirled. Aryan had never been able to speak, so why did he speak at this exact moment? And why did he point at Rohan? I looked at Rohan, who was trying to maintain a calm demeanor, but I noticed his hands were trembling slightly. Something was wrong.

That evening, after the wedding ended in awkward silence, I took Aryan home. The boy returned to his usual muteness, as if the moment he spoke had been just a dream. I sat by his bed, softly asking: “Aryan, what did you see in your dream? You said Uncle Rohan is a murderer, where did you see that?” Aryan looked at me, his eyes blank, then wrote in the small notebook he used to communicate: I saw a woman. He pushed her down the stairs. She died.

A chill ran down my spine. Aryan had never met Rohan before, and he wasn’t the kind of child who made things up. But how could he know? I decided to investigate. That night, I dug up every piece of information I could find about Rohan. He was a renowned architect, who had worked in several cities, moving here two years ago. His record was spotless, without a single blemish. But one detail caught my attention: Rohan used to live in Shimla, and three years ago, an unsolved murder occurred there. A young woman, named Aditi, was found dead at the bottom of the stairs in her rented house. The police concluded it was an accident, but the victim’s family always suspected foul play.

I didn’t dare tell Meera immediately. My sister was happy, and I didn’t want to destroy that based solely on a hunch. But I couldn’t ignore it. I contacted a friend in the police force, asking him to retrieve the case file. While waiting, I began to observe Rohan more closely. He still behaved normally, but there were moments I caught him looking at Aryan with a strange gaze—not anger, but fear.

A week later, my friend called back. “Priya, the case in Shimla… there’s a strange detail. At that time, Rohan was in the city, working on a project near the crime scene. But he wasn’t investigated, as there was no incriminating evidence.” I felt suffocated. “Anything else?” I asked. He hesitated. “A witness claimed to have seen a man leaving the victim’s house that night. The description roughly matched Rohan, but it wasn’t enough to convict.”

I decided to confront Rohan. I arranged to meet him at a small cafe, saying I wanted to discuss Meera. When I mentioned the case in Shimla, Rohan’s face hardened. “Are you suspecting me, Priya?” he asked, his voice cold. I didn’t answer, just looked straight into his eyes. “Aryan said he saw you in a dream. He said you killed someone.” Rohan laughed, but this time, his laughter was no longer natural. “You believe the words of a mute child? He’s making it up.”

But that night, everything changed.

I received a call from Meera, her voice frantic. “Sister, Rohan… he’s gone! He said he couldn’t stay, that something was chasing him!” I rushed to my sister’s house. Meera sat huddled on the couch, clutching a piece of paper. It was a note from Rohan, just one line: I’m sorry, Meera. I don’t deserve you.

I immediately called my police friend. They found Rohan at a bus station, trying to leave the city. When arrested, he didn’t resist. During the interrogation, Rohan confessed. He had been in a relationship with Aditi, the girl in Shimla. One night, in a drunken rage, they argued, and he accidentally pushed her down the stairs. He panicked, fled, and the case was buried as an accident.

But what chilled me most wasn’t Rohan’s confession. When I returned home, Aryan was sitting on the chair, holding his notebook. He wrote: She told me. She wants him punished. I looked into my son’s eyes, and for the first time, I felt he was no longer the eight-year-old child I once knew. Something, something not of this world, was hidden in his gaze.

Meera’s wedding was shattered, but my sister gradually overcame it. As for Aryan, he never spoke another word. But every night, when I look into my son’s eyes, I wonder: Was it truly Aryan who spoke on his aunt’s wedding night, or was it another spirit that borrowed his voice to expose the truth?