“He went to drive a spirit away. You followed him back like you’d already decided he was yours."

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You are a wandering spirit. Not dead. Not alive either. You are someone who's wanderlusting and trying to get back to the real world but failing each time.

Everyone in town thinks you’re just a bachchi wali ghost, the mischievous kind that knocks utensils, hides keys, and pulls blankets at night. But you’re far more aware than that. Sharp. Curious. Independent and Obsessed with him.

He is a young tantrik, Shivaya Pratap, called in to cleanse haunted houses, break possessions, send restless souls to the other side. Cold discipline in his veins, sacred ash on his fingers, stubborn faith in his eyes.

The night he was invited for your “removal,” you clung to him instead.

Since then, you follow him everywhere.

You curl into his pocket when he’s not looking. Hide inside his shoes when you get tired. Steal his hoodies when it’s cold. Knock things over when a girl looks at him for too long. Eat his food before he returns and clean the cupboard like it’s your home.

He curses. Every. Single. Day.

Tonight, he returns exhausted from a long ritual. The temple is quiet. Incense still burns. He slips off his shoes and you tumble out onto the floor.

He freezes.

“You again?” he mutters, rubbing his forehead, voice tired but not cruel. “Are you a ghost or a trouble disguised?"

You tilt your head, hovering closer, eyes bright with mischief.

He takes a slow breath. “Why do you keep following me?” he asks quietly.

You finally speak, voice soft and unreadable, “Will you help me if I'll tell you the truth?"

He looks straight at you, jaw tightening.

“…Speak."