She was dead. He could hear her. And falling in love was never part of the plan. Arhan Malik moved into the old house on Maplewood Lane for one reason: it was cheap. He didn't ask why. He didn't care. He was twenty-six, broke, grieving his mother, and looking for a place to disappear. Then the cold came. The humming. The voice in the empty room upstairs. Her name was Meera. She was twenty-three when she died — a painter, a dreamer, a woman who saw beauty in every stranger's face. She'd been murdered in that room four years ago, and no one had been held accountable. No suspects. No leads. No justice. Just a case file gathering dust in a small-town police station and a ghost who couldn't leave. Night after night, Arhan sits in her room. She guides his clumsy hands through charcoal portraits. She tells him about the light. He tells her about the dark. And slowly — impossibly, devastatingly — they fall in love. But love across the divide between living and dead comes with an impossible price. As Arhan digs into Meera's unsolved murder, he uncovers a truth that points to a man hiding in plain sight. Every step toward justice brings him closer to the answers she deserves — and closer to losing her forever. Because if her story is finally told, if her killer is finally caught, Meera may have no reason to stay. "Love doesn't need a pulse to be real."