💔 I BORROWED A WEDDING LEHENGA… AND I FOUND A LETTER IN THE LINING 😳

The day I tried on that wedding lehenga, I swear I felt something strange.
Not fear.

Not beauty.

Alone… heaviness.

But I played it down.

After all, it was borrowed. From a vintage boutique in Chandni Chowk, Old Delhi. The woman said it had only been used once, twenty years ago. Cleaned. Preserved. Intact.

I didn’t care about any of that. I was happy to finally be able to afford something that didn’t seem cheap.

I took it home.

I hung it up carefully.

And every night before my wedding, I stared at it. I dreamed of my day — the mandap, the shehnai, the man waiting with a garland.

I was in love.

Deeply.

Foolishly.

Young.

But the night before my wedding, while I was steaming the lehenga and checking for wrinkles… I felt a pull. Inside the bottom lining, near the hem, was something oddly sewn. A lump. Small. Flat.

Curious, I picked up a needle.

I opened it carefully.

And inside…

A note.

Old. Colourless. But the ink was still visible.

“IF YOU’RE READING THIS, PLEASE DON’T MARRY HIM. I BEG YOU. HE’S DANGEROUS. I ESCAPED BECAUSE I GOT LUCKY. — M.”

My lehenga fell off.

I literally dropped it.

My heart raced.

I turned the note over. There was more.

“IF HE GAVE YOU THIS LEHENGA, IT’S BECAUSE HE’S DONE IT BEFORE.”

But he didn’t.

I bought it in a boutique.

Or did he suggest the place?

I couldn’t remember anymore. Suddenly, everything became a blur.

I picked up my phone. I searched for the store online. There was no website.

How strange.

I checked the address. It didn’t exist on Google Maps.

Even weirder.

I drove there.

That night.

My wedding was tomorrow, but I couldn’t sleep. I needed answers.

And when I arrived?

It had disappeared.

Closed.

Empty windows.

Dust.

No sign of the old woman. No trace that it had been open.

I knocked on the door of the next shop.

A young man with sleepy eyes opened it.

“Namaste… Sorry to disturb you. Do you know the boutique that was here?”

He frowned.

“Boutique?”

“Yes… a vintage bridal shop. Owned by an elderly woman…”

He shook his head.

“Madam… this shop has been closed for almost twenty years.”

I froze.

“But… I just bought a lehenga from here. Days ago.”

He stepped outside.

He looked me up and down, then whispered:

“You’re the third bride in five years to ask me that.”

My blood froze.

“What happened to the others?”

He shrugged.

“One called off her wedding and disappeared.”

“The other… she went ahead with it.”

“Last I heard, she vanished on her honeymoon.”

I ran.

I went back to the car.

I was silent for twenty minutes.

Then I called him — my fiancé.

I didn’t mention the note. Nor the store. Nor the neighbour.

I just asked:

“Where did you say you were before we met?”

There was a pause.

Then he said:

“Why are you asking me that now?”

And I knew.

I knew that this note was no coincidence.

That lehenga was no coincidence.

And tomorrow?

It could be my last day alive.

---

💔 EPISODE 2 — THE SECOND NOTE

I woke up in silence.
Not the peaceful kind.
The kind that feels… wrong. As if something is holding its breath.

The note was still on the bedside table. Crushed. Wrinkled.

I held it as if it were made of glass. I didn’t want to believe that Raghav, the man I was marrying, could have secrets so dark they could rot silk.

The lehenga was back in its box. Ivory. Hand-embroidered. Still smelling faintly of lavender… and something else. Weak. Rusty.

I thought it was old perfume.
Now I wasn’t sure it wasn’t old blood.

I needed answers. But I couldn’t ask him. Not yet.

So I drove.

The store was just ten minutes from my flat in South Delhi. Between a beauty parlour and a second-hand bookstore. Its name: “Second Chances.”

I pushed the door open.

No bell.
No dresses.
No racks.
No counter.

Just dust and a broken mirror leaning against the back wall.

Empty. Abandoned.

A man sweeping the pavement outside looked up.

“Looking for something?”

“The lehenga shop. It was here. Two days ago.”

He frowned.

“That place shut down in 2019.”

I swallowed hard.

If the store didn’t exist… where did I get the lehenga?

And who left that note inside?

That night, when I picked up the lehenga box again…
It was already open.

And placed neatly on top was another note.

Five words:

“You have seven days left.”

---

💔 EPISODE 3 — THE PHOTO

The words burned into my mind. Seven days for what?

I called my best friend, Meera. I told her everything.

That night, I checked the seams again. This time, I found another bulge near the hem.

Inside was a photograph.

The elderly woman from the boutique — younger — standing next to another woman in the same lehenga.

On the back:

“She wore it too. 1997.”

I searched the second woman’s face. It was familiar.

I realised I had seen her photo before — in an old obituary.

Died in 1997. Cause of death: “Unexplained accident.”

---

💔 EPISODE 4 — THE RING

Meera suggested taking the lehenga to a fabric specialist.

The specialist found evidence of a hidden pocket. I ignored his warning not to open it.

Inside, in a black velvet pouch, was a silver ring.

Engraved: R.M.

Raghav’s initials.

I confronted him.

His reaction?

“You shouldn’t have found that.”

And before I could demand answers, I received an anonymous text:

“Don’t let him put that ring on you.”

---

💔 EPISODE 5 — THE TRUTH ABOUT MORAYA

The date inside the ring led me to an old wedding announcement: Moraya & Raghav Malhotra — 2018.

Moraya. The same name my aunt mentioned. The same woman who vanished two days after her wedding.

When I confronted Raghav, he admitted it — he had been married before.

But according to him, Moraya “just left.”

I didn’t believe him.

Three days before my wedding, another anonymous message arrived — this time, a photo of a bride lying lifeless on the ground. Caption:

“She didn’t listen to me.”

---

💔 FINAL PART — AFTER THE RAIN

On the morning of the wedding, I didn’t wear the cursed lehenga.

I arrived at the temple in a plain ivory saree.

Raghav was waiting at the mandap, smiling.

Instead of walking to him, I went to the microphone.

I read Moraya’s letter aloud.

Gasps filled the hall.

A retired police inspector in the crowd recognised Moraya’s name. Within minutes, officers entered the mandap.

Raghav was arrested.

Weeks later, I visited Moraya’s unmarked grave by the Yamuna River.

I placed a small wooden plaque:

“MORAYA — YOUR VOICE WAS NOT LOST. THANK YOU FOR SAVING ME.”

The sun broke through the clouds.

After the rain… there was light.