Dead Doesn’t Mean Gone
by Sarvesh Girde
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🔸 Dedication
To the silence that spoke louder than words.
To the ghosts of memories we pretend don’t exist.
And to those who never got to say goodbye.
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🔸 About the Authors
Sarvesh Girde is a storyteller driven by emotion, mystery, and the unseen shadows of the human mind. He believes stories are not just told—they are felt, lived, and sometimes endured. With a passion for weaving love, pain, and truth into fiction, Sarvesh explores the darkest corners of the psyche.
Rimjhim adds emotional depth and sensitivity to the rawness of Sarvesh’s narratives. She paints the emotional canvas on which the horrors unfold, ensuring every heartbeat, every breath, and every breakdown is real, relatable, and unforgettable.
Together, they’ve created a story that asks a terrifying question—what if the dead never really left?
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🔸 Introduction to the Novel
Not all ghosts come from the outside.
Some are born inside us—through guilt, memory, silence, and regret.
This isn’t just a story of someone who lost someone.
It’s the story of someone who couldn’t lose what was already gone…
because the past didn’t leave.
It stayed.
In whispers.
In reflections.
In nightmares.
And in this story, the silence screams.
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Copyright © 2025
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is purely coincidental.
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🔸 Table of Contents: Part 1 — The Vanishing Silence
1. The Unheard Goodbye
2. Whispers in the Dust
3. Her Name Still Echoes
4. The Room I Locked
5. The Night I Froze
6. The Smile That Haunted
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Chapter 1: The Unheard Goodbye
It wasn’t loud when she left. No storm, no slammed doors. Just... quiet.
The morning she disappeared wasn’t special.
The sky was its usual dull grey, the kind that made you want to stay in bed just a little longer. The news was on in the background, a toothbrush in my mouth, and her coffee was still warm on the table—half-sipped, like she meant to come back for it.
But she didn’t.
That’s the part that still haunts me.
It’s not the things she said.
It’s the things she never did.
There was no argument. No message. Not even a sigh that hinted she was about to walk out. She left like smoke—without sound, without shape, leaving only a trace that made you question if she was ever really there to begin with.
People keep asking me what the last thing she said was.
And I lie.
I tell them something poetic like “Take care of yourself” or “Don’t forget me.”
But the truth?
The last thing she said was:
“Do we have bread for tomorrow?”
That was it.
No hug. No kisses. No goodbye.
And yet, somewhere deep inside me, I felt it.
A strange stillness in the room after she walked into the hallway.
The way the door made no sound as it clicked shut.
Even the silence that followed felt… intentional.
Like the house knew something I didn’t.
I called her name an hour later. Then again.
My voice echoed back empty.
I checked the bathroom. The kitchen. The garden.
Nothing.
Her shoes were gone. Her phone was on the table.
Her coat—still on the rack.
And that’s when the panic didn’t hit.
That’s what scared me most.
There was no panic, just confusion…
the kind that creeps in slowly, like cold water rising around your ankles until it numbs you.
I waited.
I kept glancing at the door every few minutes like some part of me still believed she'd walk in, apologizing for the delay.
But hours passed.
Then came the night.
I made her coffee again the next morning.
Out of habit, maybe hope.
I didn’t throw the old cup away either.
It stayed there. Next to the fresh one. Side by side.
Like they were waiting for someone who still had a place here.
Sometimes, I stared at that door and imagined it opening.
Sometimes, I heard it creak when no one was near it.
And sometimes, I heard footsteps—soft, measured, like hers—walking across the wooden floor outside my room.
But when I opened the door, it was just silence.
Not peaceful silence.
The kind that holds its breath—like it’s hiding something.
Everyone said she left me.
But no one could explain the way the house changed that day.
The way her scent lingered longer than it should’ve.
The way her voice seemed to hang in the air long after she was gone.
I tried to forget.
But how do you forget someone who left a goodbye that never came?
How do you erase a presence that never really said it was leaving?
They say silence is golden.
But I now know—it can also be a grave.
One where words are buried alive.
And you spend the rest of your life listening...
hoping they’ll rise again.
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Chapter 2: Whispers in the Dust
Her scent still clung to the corners of the house.
It’s strange, isn’t it?
How a person leaves, and yet everything they touch… stays.
The books she left open, the toothbrush she forgot to put back in the holder, the single bobby pin on the sink edge—like clues in a crime scene that never got solved. Except there was no blood. Nobody. Just absence. And silence.
I didn’t dust anything for weeks.
The layer of dust became my calendar.
It told me how long she’d been gone.
It grew with time, covering her presence, but never truly erasing it.
Her favorite sweater still hung behind the door, its sleeves folded neatly like she meant to wear it tomorrow.
And every time I passed it, I swore it moved slightly—swayed just enough to make me turn.
At first, I told myself it was the fan.
Then I realized the fan was off.
She had a favorite corner in the living room. A spot by the window where sunlight spilled onto her legs in the morning. She used to sit there, curled up, painting her toes or reading a worn-out thriller she never finished.
Now, that spot is cold.
Even in summer, it’s cold.
The sunlight avoids it.
As if something invisible is still sitting there, refusing to leave.
I once sat there. Just to feel what she felt.
To see if I could connect.
The moment I did, a chill ran up my spine.
Not fear.
Recognition.
It was like she had just left the chair seconds ago. Like the cushion still remembered her shape.
I don’t believe in ghosts—not the way movies show them.
But there’s something about a woman who vanishes without reason, whose coffee cup still rests beside her untouched book, that turns you into a believer.
Every night, the creaks got louder.
The wood in the hallway stretched and whispered.
It didn’t sound random anymore.
It sounded like movement.
Like someone pacing.
Carefully. Slowly. Repeatedly.
One step.
Pause.
Second step.
I tried to follow once, bare feet against wooden floor, moving like a thief in my own home.
I stood at the end of the hallway.
The air felt heavier there. Like it had weight.
Like breath.
I whispered her name.
Not expecting an answer.
Just needing to hear it.
And something answered.
Not in words. Not in voice.
But the window in the hallway cracked open—just a sliver.
And a gust of wind blew through.
Carrying dust, and with it… something else.
It felt like a whisper passed by my ear.
Soft. Familiar.
I turned fast.
Nothing.
But my heartbeat told me the truth—
Someone had been standing behind me.
The dust on the floor had shifted.
There was a faint shape—like a barefoot print.
And then, as quickly as it came… it vanished.
I stood there for minutes, too scared to move forward, too afraid to go back.
And then I noticed the painting on the wall.
One of hers.
A simple black-and-white sketch of two people sitting on a bench. She never titled it.
But now, scribbled in pencil—faint, uneven, like a dying hand—was a word:
“Wait.”
I hadn’t seen that word before.
I would’ve remembered.
Because I’ve been doing exactly that.
Waiting.
For her.
For answers.
For the silence to break.
But all I get are whispers.
Whispers in the dust.
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Chapter 3: Her Name Still Echoes
I tried not to say her name.
It’s strange how a name can become dangerous.
It used to be beautiful—sweet, light, something I whispered into her neck late at night when we lay wrapped in silence. Now, her name tasted like rust. Like blood. Saying it aloud felt like opening a wound that refused to heal.
For days, I avoided it.
Even in my thoughts, I replaced it with she, her, that smile.
Because every time I tried to say it—just once—something in the house responded.
The first time, I was alone. Or at least, I thought I was.
I stood in the hallway, staring at the mirror we had once bought from a local fair. She loved it because it was slightly warped. Said it showed “flaws honestly.” That was her—romantic about broken things.
I whispered her name that evening.
And the mirror cracked.
A small, thin line. From top right to bottom left. Like a scar forming instantly.
I stood frozen, toothbrush in hand, breath stuck in my chest.
Was it a coincidence?
I said it again.
Softly. Barely above a breath.
And the light in the hallway flickered.
Not once. Three times.
Enough to make me feel like something was listening. And reacting.
I didn’t say her name again for a week.
But the house did.
Late at night, I started hearing it—her name—spoken softly, like wind rustling through paper. From behind doors. From the basement. Once, from inside the wardrobe.
I knew I was alone.
I triple-checked the locks every night. I left the lights on in every room. I started sleeping with music playing softly to drown the voices, but somehow… it would mute itself around 3 AM.
And her name would come back again.
Once, I recorded it. I left my phone in the hallway overnight.
When I played the audio the next morning, there was a sound.
Not words at first—just breathing.
Slow. Shaky. Right next to the phone.
Then, faintly—very faintly—I heard her name. My own voice. But warped, distant, like it was coming from under water.
I never said it aloud. Not during the recording.
At least… I don’t remember saying it.
That was the moment I realized something chilling:
It wasn’t just the house remembering her.
It was me.
My mind, unwilling to let go, was breathing her name even in my sleep.
A name can be an anchor or a curse.
And in my case, it became both.
Every time I heard it—whether from my lips or the shadows—I felt her coming closer. Not like a memory. Not like a ghost.
Like a storm.
Like someone trying to break through.
Some nights, I swear I saw the doorknob to her studio turn slightly.
Back and forth. Like fingers playing with it from the other side.
And once, I found her name etched lightly into the bathroom mirror. Written in the condensation, even though I hadn’t taken a shower that morning.
That’s when I knew.
I wasn’t alone in missing her.
The house missed her too.
But what scared me the most…
I thought that maybe she never really left.
Maybe she was still here.
Trapped.
Calling her own name in hope that I would answer.
And I—foolish, grieving, broken—I kept listening.
Because sometimes… her name still echoes.
And sometimes… I echo it back.
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Chapter 4: The Room I Locked
There’s a room at the end of the hallway. We never used it much. But after she left, I locked it.
Some rooms don’t just hold furniture.
They hold memories. Secrets.
And sometimes, if you’re not careful… they hold things you’re not ready to see again.
It used to be her space.
The only part of the house that was completely hers.
She called it her “quiet place.”
A little corner tucked away, where she painted what she couldn’t say out loud.
I never understood her paintings.
They weren’t cheerful.
They weren’t the type you’d hang in living rooms or galleries.
They were raw—faces without eyes, shadows sitting on empty chairs, hands reaching for doors that never opened.
But she painted with such calm, like those horrors were her therapy.
After she disappeared, I went into that room once.
Just once.
Everything was exactly where she left it.
The easel stood by the window, a brush still stuck between its bristles, dried with half-finished strokes. The canvas on it was blank—pure white, but I swear… I saw something faint in the center. A shape that wasn’t there moments before.
Her chair was still slightly turned toward the wall, as if she’d just gotten up to fetch water.
Her favorite sweater, the blue one with the torn cuff, was folded neatly on the side table. And next to it—something that didn’t belong.
A lock of hair.
It looked like hers. Curled. Dry. A little too neatly placed to be accidental.
I remember touching it.
The moment my fingers brushed against it, the door behind me creaked.
And for the first time in weeks, I felt something I hadn’t felt since she vanished.
Presence.
Not a memory. Not imagination.
But real, electric, skin-prickling presence.
It was the kind of feeling you get when someone is standing behind you—close enough to breathe on your neck but far enough to not be seen in the mirror.
I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t.
I just stood there, heart thudding, unable to breathe, fingers still holding her hair.
And then, slowly, the light in the room dimmed—not like a bulb going out—but like the room itself exhaled.
That’s when I left.
No running.
Just a steady walk backward, eyes fixed on that canvas.
And before I closed the door, I saw it.
The blank canvas wasn’t blank anymore.
A single red line had appeared.
Vertical.
Thin.
As if someone had dragged a brush down its center the moment I turned away.
I didn’t wait to investigate.
I closed the door.
Locked it.
And slid the key deep into a drawer I never opened again.
People asked me later—why didn’t I use the room anymore?
I told them the truth.
Because she was still in there.
Not her body. Not her ghost.
But the version of her that never spoke.
The version that screamed through paint and silence.
And I wasn’t strong enough to face her again.
That room didn’t just belong to her.
It became her.
And locking it felt like the only way to keep her from bleeding into the rest of the house.
Because I knew if I didn’t—
She’d come back.
And she wouldn’t be the same.
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Chapter 5: The Night I Froze
The night was colder than usual. Not the weather—me.
It was one of those nights where everything felt wrong without knowing why.
The air had a stillness to it—too still, as if the world had stopped breathing.
I remember checking all the locks before going to bed. Twice. Maybe three times. It had become a routine. One lock, then another. Window latch. Hallway light. Living room lamp left on. Not because I feared burglars. But because I feared something else. Something I couldn’t name.
Sleep came late.
And when it did, it was shallow.
My mind wouldn’t shut up.
It was around 2:13 AM when I woke up.
No sound.
No movement.
Just a feeling—an overwhelming, paralyzing presence.
The room was darker than usual. The shadows seemed thicker, almost liquid, clinging to the walls like they were watching me. I lay still, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince myself it was nothing. That my mind was playing tricks again.
And then—I heard it.
Breathing.
Not mine.
Not from outside the window.
From the bed.
Slow. Steady. Just inches away from my face.
I couldn’t move.
Every muscle in my body locked, as if something was holding me down, not physically, but psychologically. My limbs went heavy. My throat dried. All I could do was listen.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Too close.
Too real.
I closed my eyes tightly, hoping it would go away.
But it didn’t.
The blanket began to shift.
Not dramatically.
Not like in horror movies.
Just… slightly. Like someone was sliding beneath it from the other side, slowly, intentionally.
And I felt it—warmth beside me.
The kind of warmth that only comes from a living body.
Except… she wasn’t supposed to be there.
Not anymore.
I gathered every ounce of courage and turned my head slowly.
There was nothing there.
But the shape beside me on the bed—an indentation on the mattress—remained.
Like someone had just gotten up.
I sat up instantly, gasping for air, heart pounding like a drum in my chest.
My room felt unfamiliar.
Alien.
As if I’d woken up somewhere else.
I looked around.
The wardrobe door was open just a little.
I didn’t remember leaving it like that.
And then something caught my eye—at the far end of the room, near the mirror.
A shape.
It wasn’t moving.
It wasn’t clear.
But it was there.
A blurry outline. Tall. Thin. Standing still, as if it had been watching me the entire time.
I blinked—and it vanished.
No sound. No trace.
I didn’t sleep that night.
I didn’t even lie back down.
I sat in the corner of the room with the lamp on, a blanket wrapped around me, waiting for the sun to rise, pretending I was okay.
But I wasn’t.
Because what terrified me most wasn’t the shape…
Or breathing…
Or the warmth beside me.
What terrified me most was the thought that maybe—just maybe—
it wasn’t the first time it had happened.
Only the first time I’d woken up in the middle of it.
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Chapter 6: The Smile That Haunted
I saw her at the window.
Not outside.
Inside.
Behind me.
It happened on a Tuesday.
A quiet, uneventful Tuesday—the kind that disguises itself as harmless until it decides to change your life forever.
I was brushing my teeth, staring into the fogged mirror above the bathroom sink, when I saw it.
A reflection.
Her face.
Not a flash. Not a trick of the eye. Not my imagination trying to comfort me.
It was her.
Clear. Sharp. Real.
Standing right behind me.
And she was smiling.
But it wasn’t her smile.
It wasn’t the one I fell in love with—the crooked, innocent grin she gave me when she forgot her keys or spilled tea on the bedsheet. No, this smile was different. Wider. Too wide.
Like someone had stitched it on her face.
Her eyes didn’t match the smile.
They were still. Empty.
Like glass marbles sitting in a beautiful, lifeless doll.
I spun around so fast I knocked over the toothbrush stand.
Nothing.
Just steam. Silence. And a coldness that didn’t belong in a room filled with warm water and breath.
I stood there, staring into the emptiness, my heart banging inside my ribs, lungs refusing to exhale. The mirror was still foggy, but her outline was gone—as if it had been wiped clean from memory and reality in the same second.
But the feeling remained.
That unmistakable feeling that something—someone—had been standing right there. So close. So familiar. Yet… wrong.
After that night, I couldn’t look into mirrors the same way.
Because the reflection had stopped obeying me.
Sometimes, I’d catch something in the corner of the mirror—a flicker of hair, a whisper of movement—but when I turned, there was nothing there.
Other times, I would stare at myself… and it would take a second too long for the image to move.
Once, I swear, I blinked… and my reflection didn’t.
That’s when I started covering mirrors.
First the bathroom.
Then the one in the bedroom.
Eventually, even the screen of my phone.
Because every time I saw a reflection, I feared seeing her again.
Not the woman I loved.
But the thing that wore her face like a mask.
It’s strange how grief works.
At first, you crave their presence. You look for signs. Hints. Messages from the beyond.
But then… something answers.
And you start praying you’re wrong.
That it’s not them.
Because the dead don’t come back the way they left.
They come back changed.
Twisted.
And sometimes, smiling.
I began to wonder—what if that wasn’t a ghost?
What if it was a memory so powerful that it found its own way back?
Not through dreams. Not through thoughts.
But through reflections.
Through the glass that knows more than it shows.
Because here’s what haunts me most:
That smile…
It wasn’t haunting because it was sinister.
It was haunting because part of me smiled back.
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