The dim light of Ishaan Malhotra’s apartment flickered as he stared at the blank editing screen on his laptop. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but no words came. The smell of instant noodles lingered in the air, a stark reminder of how far he had fallen from the dreams he’d once nurtured.
The Unheard Hour. He had thought the name was clever when he started his podcast three years ago. Now it felt like a cruel joke. The show, dedicated to sharing untold stories and forgotten voices, had gone unnoticed—an invisible whisper in the cacophony of the digital age.
He glanced at the stats for his latest episode: 34 downloads. Thirty-four. And half of those were probably bots.
“Great,” he muttered, slamming the lid of his laptop shut. The action sent a hollow echo through the small room. The single window, smudged with grime, barely let in the gray light of the overcast afternoon. Outside, the muffled hum of Mumbai’s traffic provided a constant backdrop to his isolation.
The city buzzed with life, but Ishaan felt like a ghost drifting through it. His friends had all moved on—careers, marriages, promotions. His parents had stopped asking about the podcast altogether, their disappointment palpable even through their silence.
“Maybe it’s time to let it go,” he whispered to himself, the words tasting bitter on his tongue.
A few hours later, Ishaan found himself wandering through the crowded lanes of Chor Bazaar. The decision to come here had been impulsive—a half-hearted attempt to escape the suffocating weight of his apartment.
“Antique clocks, straight from the Maharaja’s palace!”
“Leather belts! Pure camel leather!”
“Bollywood posters! Vintage and rare!”
Hawkers lined the alleyways, their voices rising and falling like a melody, each one trying to outshout the other.
Ishaan ignored them, his hands jammed deep into his pockets. He had no idea why he’d come here. Maybe he was chasing the same fleeting hope that had kept him clinging to his podcast—an invisible thread pulling him forward, even as everything else unraveled.
Then he saw it—a stall tucked away in a shadowed corner. It wasn’t like the others, its wares arranged haphazardly, as if the vendor couldn’t decide whether he was selling or hoarding. A rusted compass rested beside a cracked magnifying glass. Stacks of faded photographs leaned against a tarnished gramophone.
But it wasn’t the clutter that caught Ishaan’s attention. It was the microphone.
It sat in the center of the table, gleaming like a polished gem amidst the grime. Its vintage design stood out: a chrome grille, sturdy base, and a coiled cable that looked like it hadn’t been touched in years.
Ishaan’s eyes lingered on it as he approached the stall.
Behind the table, an old man sat on a low stool, his frame wiry and bent. His face was creased like crumpled paper, his eyes almost hidden beneath bushy gray eyebrows. He seemed to be watching Ishaan without looking at him, a faint smile playing on his lips.
“Looking for something special?” the man asked, his voice low and gravelly.
Ishaan hesitated, then gestured toward the microphone. “How much for that?”
The old man leaned forward, his movements slow and deliberate. His smile deepened as he placed a gnarled hand on the mic.
“This one?” he said, his tone almost teasing.
Ishaan nodded.
“Not just a microphone, my boy,” the man said, lifting it as though it weighed more than it should. “This is... a vessel.”
Ishaan frowned. “A vessel for what?”
“For voices,” the old man said simply, his gaze unwavering. “Voices that aren’t always heard.”
The words hung in the air, strange and heavy. Ishaan glanced at the mic again. “It’s just an old mic, right? Nothing fancy.”
The vendor chuckled softly. “It depends on what you believe. Some say it captures more than just sound.”
Ishaan raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”
The man tilted his head, his smile fading. “Stories. Secrets. Whispers of those long gone.”
Ishaan’s chest tightened. The words felt rehearsed, but there was something about the man’s voice—calm, assured, and unsettling.
“How much?” Ishaan asked, his tone firmer now.
The old man stroked his chin, pretending to consider. “A thousand rupees.”
“A thousand?” Ishaan scoffed. “That’s steep for an old mic.”
“Ah, but this isn’t just an old mic,” the vendor replied, his eyes glinting. “It’s a key. And keys don’t just open doors, my boy. They open worlds.”
The absurdity of the statement made Ishaan want to laugh, but the man’s expression didn’t waver.
“Fine,” Ishaan said finally, pulling out his wallet.
The old man wrapped the microphone in a piece of tattered cloth and handed it over with both hands.
“Good luck,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’ll need it.”
Ishaan slung the mic into his bag and turned to leave, his footsteps quickening as he moved away from the stall. But even as he walked back through the crowded alleys, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the old man’s eyes were still on him, watching, waiting.
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The clock on Ishaan's wall ticked loudly in his silent apartment. Past midnight, the city outside was quieting. Ishaan sat at his desk, his laptop's glow casting shadows.
A cup of reheated chai cooled untouched, a half-eaten sandwich sat nearby, and his fingers drummed the desk as he eyed the new microphone.
It gleamed in the soft light, its chrome grille catching every flicker of the dim bulb above him. He felt a strange pull toward it, like it was silently daring him to use it.
What the hell am I doing? he thought.
For years, Ishaan’s nights had been the same: recording, editing, deleting, and repeating. Each episode of The Unheard Hour felt like a scream into the void, and the void always screamed back with silence. His listener count never climbed, his inbox remained empty, and his hope dwindled with every passing day.
But tonight felt different. Something about the microphone had sparked a flicker of anticipation he hadn’t felt in months.
He plugged it in, the cable clicking into place with a satisfying snap. The laptop registered it immediately, and he adjusted his headphones, slipping them on with the precision of a seasoned podcaster.
“Testing, testing,” he said, leaning in. His voice echoed back, rich and crisp. The mic’s quality was impeccable, far superior to his usual setup.
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He leaned back in his chair, staring at the waveform on his screen. A small smile tugged at his lips. At least the purchase hadn’t been a total waste.
But then it happened.
A faint whisper crackled through his headphones, so soft he almost missed it.
“Ishaan...”
He froze, his heart skipping a beat. He glanced at his laptop, expecting to see an audio anomaly. But the waveform was flat, no spikes, no interruptions.
“Hello?” he said, his voice uncertain.
Silence.
He shook his head, pulling off the headphones. “Must be interference,” he muttered, though his chest felt tight.
Still, something about the whisper gnawed at him. It had sounded so deliberate, so... real. He put the headphones back on and hit record again.
This time, the voice came louder, clearer.
“Ishaan... help me.”
His breath caught. He ripped the headphones off, his pulse pounding in his ears. For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the microphone like it might sprout legs and attack him.
“This is insane,” he whispered to himself.
But the voice lingered in his mind, haunting and plaintive. Against his better judgment, he leaned forward and spoke into the mic. “Who’s there?”
A pause. Then, the whisper returned.
“Amara... my name... Amara...”
The sound of the name sent a shiver down Ishaan’s spine. He swallowed hard, his throat dry. “Amara? What do you want?”
“Tell my story... they forgot me... please.”
The desperation in her voice was unmistakable, and it made Ishaan’s stomach churn. This wasn’t possible. He was alone in his apartment. There was no logical explanation for what he was hearing.
“Is this some kind of prank?” he asked, his tone harsher than he intended. “Who’s doing this?”
But there was no answer.
He sat back, his mind racing. The logical part of him wanted to blame it on a faulty microphone, or maybe interference from a nearby signal. But another part—a deeper, quieter part—whispered that this was something else entirely.
He replayed the recording, his hands trembling slightly as he clicked the file. The whispers were there, faint but undeniable.
*Amara... my name... Amara...*
“Oh! God,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.
He pushed his chair back and paced the room, trying to shake off the eerie feeling that had settled over him. His reflection in the darkened window looked pale, his eyes wide with unease.
“It’s just a trick,” he said aloud, trying to convince himself. “Some freak interference. That’s all.”
But the more he thought about it, the less sense it made. He had used countless microphones in his years of podcasting, and none of them had ever picked up anything like this.
His gaze drifted back to the mic, still sitting on his desk. It seemed to glint at him, almost mocking in its stillness.
He hesitated, then sat back down. His hands hovered over the keyboard before he opened a blank document.
“Amara,” he said into the mic, his voice steadier now. “What story do you want me to tell?”
The response was immediate, her voice tinged with relief. “I was forgotten... they buried me without my name... tell them I was here.”
Ishaan’s throat tightened. The sadness in her voice was palpable, and it struck a chord deep within him. He wanted to know more—to understand who she was, what had happened to her.
“Who buried you? Where?” he asked, his voice soft but insistent.
The whisper grew faint, as though she were slipping away. “Find me... please...”
Then, silence.
Ishaan stared at the mic, waiting for her to return, but the stillness in the room was absolute.
His thoughts spiraled as he sat there, trying to make sense of what had just happened. He wanted to believe it was a fluke, a glitch, anything but what it seemed to be.
He leaned closer, adjusting the mic’s position as though proximity might bring her back. “Amara,” he said softly, almost pleading. “If you’re there... I’m listening.”
For a moment, nothing happened. The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive, making him doubt everything he’d heard earlier. Then, faint and wavering, her voice returned.
“Thank you...”
His pulse quickened. He forced himself to stay calm, his hands steady as they hovered over the keyboard. “Tell me your story, Amara. I’ll make sure it’s heard.”
Her whisper grew stronger, filled with quiet determination. “My name was Amara Shah. I lived in Bandra... near the sea. I loved the ocean—its smell, its sound. It made me feel free.”
He typed her words quickly, afraid to lose a single detail.
“What happened to you?” he asked gently.
Amara hesitated, her voice faltering. “I was happy once. I had dreams... small ones, but they were mine. I wanted to open a café, a place where people could laugh and share their stories. I even had a name picked out: Seabreeze Café.”
Her voice brightened briefly.
“And Rishabh?” he prompted, remembering the name she’d mentioned before.
Her whisper softened, tinged with warmth. “Rishabh was everything to me. Kind, funny, patient. We met in college. He was studying architecture, and I was in business. He said he’d design my café someday.”
Ishaan’s fingers paused over the keyboard, imagining the life she described: a young couple dreaming of a shared future. It felt so vivid, so real.
“But...” Her voice cracked slightly, “Things don’t always go as planned, do they?”
“What happened?” he pressed, his voice soft, careful.
“It was my birthday,” Amara began, her words fragile. “We were at a friend’s house, celebrating. There was music, laughter... and then Rishabh got a call. He stepped outside, and I followed him. I didn’t want him to miss the cake.”
She paused, and Ishaan waited, sensing that the memory was weighing on her.
“I found him by the gate, arguing with someone on the phone. He looked... scared. I’d never seen him like that. When I asked what was wrong, he just shook his head and said everything was fine.”
Her voice quivered. “But it wasn’t fine. Later that night, he said he had a surprise for me. We drove to the cliffs. It was beautiful—city lights reflecting on the water. But... something felt wrong.”
Ishaan leaned closer, his own breath catching. “What happened at the cliffs?”
Amara hesitated, and then her voice grew quieter, laced with pain. “There were two men waiting for us. I didn’t know them, but Rishabh did. They started arguing—yelling. One of them grabbed Rishabh, shoved him against the car. I tried to pull him away, but...”
Her words came in a rush, breaking with emotion. “I don’t even know who hit me. I just... I fell. Everything went dark.”
Ishaan’s heart raced as he pieced it together. “You... you didn’t survive,” he said, his voice barely audible.
“No,” she whispered, the finality of it cutting through him. “They buried me there, near the cliffs. No name, no marker. Just... forgotten.”
The silence that followed felt unbearable. Ishaan struggled to find the right words. “I’m so sorry, Amara.”
“You can help me,” she said, her voice suddenly urgent. “Tell them I existed. Tell them what they did. Please... don’t let me disappear.”
He swallowed hard. “I will. I promise.”
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For hours, Ishaan worked tirelessly, recording Amara’s whispers and weaving them into a cohesive narrative. Her dreams, her love, and the tragedy of her untimely death unfolded in chilling detail. The microphone seemed alive, humming faintly as if urging him on.
By the time the sun began to rise, Ishaan had renamed his poadcast and finished the first episode of *Whispers Beyond the Grave.*
His finger hovered over the “Publish” button, but he couldn’t bring himself to press it. Doubts crowded his mind, each one louder than the last.
What if no one believes me?
What if they think I’ve lost it?
What if this ruins everything I’ve worked for?
He leaned back, rubbing his temples. The microphone sat on the desk, silent and unassuming, but it felt like it was watching him, waiting.
“This is insane,” he muttered. “I’m about to tell the world I recorded a ghost.”
He glanced at the clock—6:47 a.m. The sky outside was still a soft gray, and the city was beginning to stir. It wasn’t the first time he’d pulled an all-nighter, but this time felt different.
Taking a deep breath, he muttered, “Screw it,” and clicked the button.
The upload bar filled slowly, each percentage feeling like a step closer to freefall. When it was done, the episode sat at the top of his podcast page, its title bold and unmistakable: Episode 1: Amara Shah – A Whisper from the Cliffs.
Hours passed. The sun climbed higher, and the city roared to life outside his window. Ishaan’s stomach churned as he refreshed his podcast analytics page for the hundredth time.
Then, it happened.
The first play.
He stared at the screen, his breath catching. One play turned into five, then ten. By noon, the number had climbed to over a hundred.
“What the...?” Ishaan whispered, his heart racing.
He opened his email, and his inbox was already filling up. Comments, questions, and messages from listeners poured in faster than he could read them.
“Is this real? This is insane!”
“I had chills listening to Amara’s story. Please tell me you’ll do more episodes.”
“I remember hearing about a girl named Amara Shah who disappeared years ago. Could this be her?”
Ishaan’s hands trembled as he clicked through the messages. Some were skeptical, accusing him of fabricating the story for attention. Others were captivated, demanding more details about Amara and her tragic tale.
But one message stood out.
Subject: I Know Amara’s Story
Hi Ishaan,
I just listened to your podcast, and I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I grew up in Bandra, near the cliffs. My grandmother used to tell us about a girl who went missing there years ago. She always said the cliffs were haunted, that you could hear whispers if you stood there alone at night. I never believed her—until now.
Ishaan read the message twice, his pulse quickening. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the screen.
Could it be true? Had someone else heard Amara’s whispers before him?