Renu Sharma wasn’t searching for anything that Sunday afternoon. She just needed a break — from client meetings, looming deadlines, and the polished glass towers of Mumbai that never seemed to sleep. The Colaba flea market was her usual escape. Chaos in the best way: faded books, rusted cutlery, old movie posters, the occasional antique that whispered stories from other centuries.
She found the painting tucked behind a cracked mirror, half-wrapped in newspaper. The moment she saw it, her fingers froze.
Two children — a girl and a younger boy. Dressed in old woolen coats, cheeks hollow, eyes dark with something heavier than sadness. They weren’t looking at her. They were looking through her.
“How much for this?” she asked.
The vendor, weathered and yawning, replied, “Four hundred. Came from Poland or Germany, I think. Maybe 1940s. Some say it was painted inside a camp.”
“A camp?”
“Nazi camp. Or so I’ve heard. But it’s just a painting, no?”
Renu didn’t respond. She bought it without bargaining, carried it home in a cloth tote, and hung it above her work desk.
She had no idea what she had brought into her home.
The voices began the third night.
Whispers. Like a language remembered in a dream. Soft. Almost apologetic.
“Mama?”
She sat up, heart hammering. Her apartment was silent.
Or was it?
A giggle. The sound of feet padding lightly across a floor that shouldn’t creak.
She blamed exhaustion. Advertising was all late nights and overstimulated brains. But the next night, it happened again.
And then — she saw them.
The same children from the painting, standing near the foot of her bed. Pale, solid, breathing.
She wanted to scream, but her voice caught in her throat.
They spoke again — German? Or was it Polish?
“Mama... du bist zurück.”
(You are back.)
She understood them. Somehow.
And deep within, something shifted.
By day, Renu withdrew. She missed calls. Skipped meetings. She told her boss she had the flu, but in truth, she couldn’t bring herself to leave the children.
Every night they returned. Each time closer. More comfortable. They told her about the cold. The soldiers. The day they lost their mother to a gunshot by the fence.
They showed her the moment — in flashes.
A scream.
Running.
Then — a bang.
Pain.
Snow turned red.
She saw it all.
And she felt it.
One night, she clutched her stomach and fell back on her bed, gasping as if she'd been shot. There was no wound. No blood. Just the ghost of agony of something that had happened in the past.
The children would cry sometimes. They’d whisper, “Bleib bei uns, Mama. Für immer.”
(Stay with us, Mama. Forever.)
And she would nod, tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry I left you.”
Because now, she remembered. She remembered everything.
Then, one morning — she was gone.
Her bed untouched. Her door locked from inside. No sign of struggle. Her phone, keys, and handbag sat neatly on her table.
The police were called. Missing person’s report filed. Posters printed. But no one knew what happened.
Except maybe the painting.
Later that week, her best friend came to pack up her things.
She paused in front of the painting — the one Renu had bought from the market.
And her blood ran cold.
There were three figures now.
The same girl and boy, still holding hands. But standing between them was a woman. One arm around each child. Her head tilted slightly, smiling.
The face was unmistakable.
The same gentle wave in her hair. The same delicate features. The faint dimple on her left cheek. And the tiny pearl earrings Renu wore almost every day.
It was her.
No doubt.
But the canvas wasn’t altered. No brush strokes disturbed the surface. The frame remained sealed, undisturbed. It was as if the third figure had always been there — simply waiting for its moment to appear.
Some say Renu left the city. Others whisper darker things.
But those who saw the painting?
They knew.
She hadn’t run.
She hadn’t died.
She had gone home.
And finally — they were together. The children. And their mother.
Smiling.
Forever.
