Dr.Vidhi Trivedi

Chapter 1: Whispers in the Walls The village of Dasada, nestled in the dry, ancient heart of northern Gujarat, had always carried a strange silence in its wind. It was a silence that felt too heavy, as though it hid whispers that should never be heard. Twelve-year-old Damini lived in this eerie village with her parents, her elder brother Hiren, and her younger brother Parth. Though Damini was known for being bright and sharp, she was also a bit of a fattu—a scaredy-cat. Every creak, shadow, or odd sound made her heart race, though she tried hard to pretend otherwise. Her two closest friends, Fatema and Ateka, were the only ones she trusted enough to share her fears with. Their school, located on the edge of the village near the banyan forest, was a crumbling old structure from the time of the British. Rumors surrounded it—about missing children, about a blood-stained blackboard that never stayed clean, and about a room that no one dared to enter. Room 9. It had been sealed ...

Shimla, where silence rhymes with snow… Winter wasn’t new to Shimla, but that particular season felt different — like every pine tree held a verse, every snowflake whispered a secret, and every streetlamp dreamed of two strangers destined to meet. In the heart of that city, inside a vintage radio station with creaking wooden floors and old vinyls lining the walls, was RJ Noor — the velvet voice of the hills. He wasn’t your everyday radio jockey. No filmy masala. No loud jingles. He whispered like midnight lullabies. He spoke like your inner thoughts. And when he recited poetry, it felt like the moon had a voice. “तन्हाई जब भी हद से बढ़ती है, मैं तुम्हें पढ़ लेता हूँ, जैसे कोई दुआ सिरहाने रख दी हो बेसब्री में।” — Noor Noor hosted a late-night radio show called “Sheher-e-Kalam” — a sanctuary of poems, heartbreaks, and unspoken letters. His voice came alive post 12 a.m., when the world quieted down enough to hear their own heartbeats. But there was one listener who never misse...

Bangalore, 10:28 PM The city was wrapping itself in a soft hush. A light drizzle blurred streetlights into amber halos. Metro shutters were down, puddles rippled at every turn, and the distant hum of traffic felt like a memory. Somewhere in Koramangala, behind blue grills and thin curtains, life was unwinding. Her World Ira, 25, Software Developer at a mid-sized firm. Introvert by nature, gentle by default. Her world was books with yellowing pages, indie playlists no one else had heard of, and a drawer filled with chai packets she never shared. She lived on the second floor of a shared flat — Flat 204 — with two girls louder than her playlists. They laughed about HR policies, swapped sheet masks, and tried to get Ira to say more than five words at dinner. She never minded the noise. She simply existed between it — like silence in a well-written line. That day, work had dragged longer than usual. Deadlines, Jira tickets, and one broken build later, she stepped out into the s...