At the edge of a small village lies a mango grove where night holds its own breath. An Indian Ghost still walks there, under the thin moon and among the dripping leaves. People say the old well listens to every word spoken near it. If you stand by the water and listen, you will hear a voice from the past, soft and almost kind.
I followed the sound, notebook in hand. The air turned cold, and the path dimmed to a pale glow. A pale figure appeared between the trees, eyes full of remembered rain. It did not shout; it waited, patient, as if asking for a listener to hear its story.
Since that night, the grove keeps a secret. A soft murmur would rise from the leaves, then fade. The whispers drift through the branches, and the air grows heavy with a haunted tale that waits for a patient heart. If you pass there alone, listen well, and you might feel the story breathe beside you.