Sun, 16 Aug 2026 12:29:05 +0000

SHE

There was once a woman who died with an entire lifetime trapped inside her chest.

No one knew what she endured.

No one knew how many nights she spent swallowing her screams, how many wounds she concealed beneath a composed face, or how many times she wished for someone—just someone—to ask her what was wrong and stay long enough to hear the answer.

She died carrying every unsaid word with her.

But death, it seemed, was not the end of her story.

Years later, a particular road on the outskirts of the city became synonymous with disappearances. People who wandered there after dusk were sometimes found days later—alive, but inexplicably altered. Others were never found at all.

And then came the stories.

Every person who encountered her claimed the same thing.

A woman appeared.

Sometimes beneath the dying streetlights. Sometimes beside the old, abandoned road. Sometimes sitting alone where no house had stood for decades.

She never attacked them.

She never chased them.

She simply asked them to listen.

And then she told them a story.

A story about a woman who had loved too deeply, endured too quietly, trusted too blindly, and suffered more than a human heart was ever meant to contain.

A story of abandonment.

Of betrayal.
Of loneliness so profound that even her own reflection became a stranger.

And when the story ended—

the listener disappeared.

No blood.

No footprints.

No evidence.

Nothing.

As though the night itself had opened its mouth and swallowed them whole.

Soon, people stopped travelling that road.

Parents warned their children never to go near it. Lovers avoided it. Even the bravest men in the city lowered their voices whenever the place was mentioned.

Because everyone knew there was something there.

Something invisible.

Something that could not be photographed, touched, or explained.

But those who had felt its presence described the same sensation—

the unbearable certainty that something was watching.

Waiting.

Remembering.

And perhaps the most terrifying part was not that she wanted revenge.

It was that she had spent her entire life wishing for someone to hear her story.

Now, anyone who crossed her path was forced to listen.

Because she had died unheard.

And she had no intention of remaining forgotten.
They called the place cursed.

But perhaps the place was never cursed.

Perhaps it was only haunted by a woman who had finally found someone willing to listen.

Her.