The morning was drenched in soft sunlight. Dew still clung lazily to the leaves in the Chauhans’ balcony garden, where I had retreated for a slice of silence. Out here, there were no hushed gossiping voices, no Priyanka hovering with endless chatter about neighbors or ceremonies. Just me, the green blush of hibiscus and jasmine, and the faint scent of damp earth. 🌿✨

I settled into the chair, pulling the breakfast tray closer. Golden waffles, a steaming cup of coffee.

Me (internally, heart swelling): Coffee… oh god, I’ve missed you so much. ☕💛

I took a long sip, savoring it like I hadn’t tasted joy in days. My fork pressed gently through a waffle, chewing slowly, eyes roving lazily over the riot of flowers and colors before me. For a brief, fragile moment — peace.

Then the door creaked open.

I turned, frowning slightly.

Sana (hushed, hesitant): “Miss…”

She lingered in the doorway, her expression oddly heavy for someone so young.

Me (eyebrows raised, gently teasing but curious): “Are you still wearing your amulet?”

Sana (serious, without hesitation): “When you’re in a house with bhoots, it’s better to always keep it close.” 👻⚡

She paused, then added softly: “I hope I’m not bothering you.”

Me (shaking my head, gazing back at the garden to make her comfortable): “No… you’re not. I just wanted a little silence.”

Sana stepped forward carefully, her feet light on the balcony tiles. Then, from beneath the soft folds of her sari, she pulled out something small but gleaming. Her fingers twirled it delicately, shyly, before she held it out toward me.

A thread, woven bright in reds, greens, and blues, with a small shimmering pendant at its center.

Sana (quietly but firmly): “Take it. It’s yours.” 🌙🧵

I blinked at the gift, the thread catching glints of sunlight, strange and beautiful.

Sana (stepping closer, her voice gentle but insistent): “I’ll help you put it on.”

Her little hands reached out, the amulet dangling between us like a fragile truce with fate.

I brushed my fingers over the pendant, the multicolored thread cool and fragile against my skin.

Me (softly): “Thank you, Sana.” 🙏

She gave me a small, radiant smile, her eyes twinkling.

Sana: “You’re welcome, Miss. May it guard you whenever I’m not around.” ✨🧿

For a moment, warmth bloomed in my chest.

Me (curious): “When is your wedding?”

Sana (sighing, wringing her hands slightly): “In three days. Mrs. Chauhan hasn’t stopped fussing. She’s restless… always busy.”

Me (smiling faintly): “Are you looking forward to it?”

She paused, her smile faltering.

Sana (honest, almost shy): “I don’t know. Maybe? They say my fiancé is a good man. I suppose I’m… starting a new chapter of my life.” She titled her head thoughtfully, then added with a hopeful chirp: “You should invite your colleagues to my wedding. The more people there are, the merrier the celebration will be.” 🌺🥁

Her innocence tugged at me.

Me (internally, heart softening): She’s right. It wouldn’t hurt for us to laugh, even for one day. Grandma always said, “Even during storms, the lamps must stay lit. Otherwise, there’ll be no strength left to fight.” 🕯️

Me (warm): “Of course, we’ll come.”

Sana’s smile blossomed fully now, and with a small nod, she slipped away to her work.

Left alone, I leaned back, staring at the flicker of sunlight on the pendant now lying against my chest. The day loomed ahead: a visit to the library to untangle the riddle of Brahmi script, maybe stopping by the sari shop, maybe—just maybe—asking one of my team to come along. My old wardrobe definitely hadn’t been prepared for this... “extended stay” in Calcutta.

Before leaving, I picked up the phone. My thoughts tugged east, to home.

The line clicked, and the familiar voice filled me.

Kiran (brisk, distracted): “Hello, Khan’s residence.”

Me (breathing out relief): “Kiran, it’s me.”

His tone softened at once.

Kiran: “Oh, hi! Make it quick, I’m leaving for school.” 🎒

Me (smiling faintly): “How are you doing? How’s school?”

Kiran (bright but weary): “I’m fine. I’ve turned in almost all my essays. There are a couple classes that are hard… but the teachers are understanding. They know I’m trying. And I’ve still got sports.” He chuckled lightly. “I’m looking forward to coming there! I’ll see you next week, right?”

The words should’ve soothed me—but instead, a knot twisted in my chest.

Me (worried, voice a little sharp): “I’m worried, Kiran. How will you manage to fly alone?” ✈️

Kiran (huffing, indignant): “I’m not a kid!”

His mock annoyance made me smile for an instant, but then I caught my breath, remembering.

Me: “And Grandma? Did you tell the nurse you’re leaving?”

There was a pause. Too long.

Then Kiran’s voice lowered.

Kiran (hesitant, heavy): “…Yes. But, Amala… Grandma’s… unwell.” 😔

My heart sank. “What do you mean?”

Kiran (quiet, grim): “She’s more often delirious than conscious now. Always talking to herself, like… like she’s not here anymore. No one can get through to her…”

Me (softly, reassuring myself as much as him): “Oh… she’s in good hands. Our nurse has been taking care of Grandma for years. She’s never once complained.”

Kiran (quickly): “Yes… she’ll be fine without me.”

But the sigh that slipped through betrayed him. For a moment, the boyish bravado thinned.

Kiran (hurriedly): “Look, I need to get going. School’s calling. I’ll see you next week, okay?”

Me (forcing lightness into my tone): “Sure.”

The line clicked dead, leaving me with silence and a heaviness I couldn’t shake.

Me (internally): All right. One thing at a time. The sari shop first. I want a nice salwar kameez. 👗

I stepped out, soon finding myself in a street I already knew well. The moment I entered it, I was consumed by the living pulse of Calcutta.

Everywhere — bright fabrics billowed like banners, vivid with reds, greens, and gold embroidery that caught the sun. Shopkeepers shouted over one another, calling customers in sharp bursts of Bengali, Hindi, Urdu, even clipped English. The air shimmered with an intoxicating mix of spices, incense, and hot oil from food stalls frying samosas at the corners. 🌶️🥟💨

Me (internally, tugging my scarf closer): It’s so crowded… gods, even the traffic feels alive here. The car horns sound like part of the melody, blending into the pulse of the street. 🚦🎺

Men in kurtas and women in flowing saris brushed past me, arms full of cloth, flowers, bangles. Each fleeting face vibrant, animated, utterly different from the worn silence of the embassy halls I’d been stuck in all week.

I slowed, letting my gaze drink it in. Kolkata wasn’t just a backdrop — it was a heartbeat. Loud, busy, unapologetically alive.

Me (thinking, chest softening): Fascinating… The local culture is so original, so textured. Vibrant threads woven together — just like these fabrics. This city… it’s stealing my heart. 💛

A moment later, I stepped into the sari shop. The soft jingle of the bell rang above me, but the place was empty — quiet, cozy, filled with the faint perfume of incense and fresh fabric. Somewhere behind the curtains, I could hear the hum of a sewing machine.

I didn’t wait. My fingers trailed eagerly across rows of silk, cotton, and chiffon. Colors shimmered under the soft yellow lights — jewel tones, metallic embroideries, delicate sequins catching the air. ✨👗

The rustle of fabric must’ve given me away, because the shop owner soon emerged from the back. A kind-faced woman, her eyes immediately sparkled as she bustled forward, laying out options for me — sapphire blues, radiant reds, soft golds, and pastels that looked like bottled spring.

And then I saw it.

A lavish lilac salwar kameez, beautifully embroidered, the threads glinting like silver when they caught the light. My hands sank into the fabric. It was soft, cool, alive.

I slipped it on, stepping before the mirror.

Me (thinking, unable to look away, grinning): Beau-ti-ful! 💜🌸✨

I turned side to side, watching the lilac folds hug and flow around me. For a moment, I didn’t look like the weary investigator haunted by corpses and visions. I looked like… myself. A woman. Alive.

The owner clapped her hands, not done with me yet.

Shop Owner (beaming): “Madam, let me also fix your hairstyle.”

I hesitated, then nodded with a smile. Within minutes, her gentle fingers combed through my hair, parting it to one side, letting it cascade freely in elegant simplicity. Loose, natural, effortless beauty — just enough. 💆🏽‍♀️🌺

I caught my reflection again. Lilac silk draped with grace, my hair falling like a dark river over one shoulder.

Rushing out of the changing room, I almost collided with someone. My lilac fabric swirled as I steadied myself — and there he was. Ratan.

Our eyes locked instantly. His gaze… unwavering, steady, almost too much.

Ratan (soft, calm): “I see you’re already choosing.”

Me (arching a brow, teasing lightly): “Actually, I’m done. And you’re late.” 😉

He dipped his head slightly, a hint of apology in the motion.

Ratan: “I’m sorry… I had to deal with an urgent personal matter. But I couldn’t miss the opportunity to see you wearing a salwar kameez.”

Heat crept up my cheeks, though I pushed it aside with a shrug.

Me: “Well, you’ve seen it now. What do you think?”

His gaze ran over me — not crude, but deliberate, like someone memorizing an image. When he finally spoke, his tone was measured, but warm.

Ratan: “If I praise you, I’ll only be stating the obvious. If I stay silent, I’ll seem blind. This outfit doesn’t just suit you — it enhances what’s already there. You are… the kind of woman who looks beautiful at all times. That is simply your nature.” 💜

For a moment, my breath caught. I glanced away before replying.

Me: “I hope I haven’t kept you from anything important. I didn’t want to disturb the others — they’re probably overwhelmed already.”

He tilted his head slightly, his eyes fixed on mine.

Ratan: “And what about you? How do you feel?”

A tight laugh escaped my lips, touched with unease.

Me: “Strange. Like… a fly caught in a spider’s web.” 🕷️🕸️

Ratan (soft, sympathetic): “Not the most pleasant feeling, I presume.”

I shrugged, uncertain of what to say — but his gaze didn’t waver. His presence pressed in around me, steady, almost comforting.

Ratan: “I wanted to spend time with you. That’s why I came despite being busy.”

I blinked, narrowing my eyes playfully.

Me: “So I did keep you from something after all?”

He shook his head, lips curving faintly.

Ratan: “You’ve misunderstood me. I said I wanted to spend time with you. That’s no burden. If you feel trapped… my job is to make you feel better.”

That earned him a small smile from me.

Me: “And how exactly do you plan on doing that?”

Ratan (gesturing toward the door, calm as ever): “Let’s go for a walk. I’ll treat you to iced tea. We’ll enjoy the weather together.” 🌞🍵

Me (relenting, smiling wider now): “That sounds like a good plan.”

Ratan (gently amused): “It will be even better once we put it into practice. Shall we?”

Despite my objections, he paid for my purchases with graceful certainty, then offered me his arm. I hesitated only a moment — and then slipped my hand into the curve of his elbow.

Outside, the day was shimmering and hot, but the iced tea he bought was wonderfully cool, sweet against my lips. I sipped slowly, savouring the relief, while our feet carried us through Kolkata’s winding streets.

The vendors, the smells of incense and frying oil, the chaos of traffic all blurred at the edges. What stood out, sharp and undeniable, was him — steady, composed, his voice calm as he spoke.

Our conversation flowed like the warm air around us: steady, unhurried, quietly pleasant. Against the backdrop of Calcutta’s rhythm, for the first time that day, I felt a strange, rare calm.

Me (internally, surprised): Spending time with him… is actually enough to make me forget the shadows for a while. 💫

When Lima heard I was heading to the library, her face lit up. She asked if she could come along, and of course, I let her.

Lima (smiling, voice bubbling): “Thanks for letting me join you. I really wanted to come here.”

Me (nodding, warm): “Sure. I was happy to. Do you like books?”

Lima (with a laugh): “Yes! Though I doubt I’ll understand any of the local ones…” 📚

Her excitement made me smile, but my focus was elsewhere. The moment we stepped into the National Library, its vastness swallowed us whole — high ceilings, the smell of polished wood and old paper, aisles stretching endlessly like a labyrinth designed for scholars.

I flashed my card at the desk, then led us forward.

Me (internally, scanning the shelves): This place is too huge. Maybe Manu could help me… He knows this place like the back of his hand. It’d be easier to find him than ask a stranger. And besides… it would be nice to see a familiar face. 👀

We wandered for ten long minutes, weaving through rows of bookshelves already familiar to me. But Manu wasn’t there.

A twist of worry knotted my stomach. I frowned, just as a distant half-whisper reached my ears. A hushed, clipped voice — the exact same tone Manu used when he scolded me in the secret library.

Me (internally, amused but wary): So now he’s annoyed at someone else, huh? How things change. 😏💭

Lima (tilting her head, whispering): “Is that him?”

I gave a vague shrug. “Maybe.” And we followed the sound, step by step, deeper into the maze.

Then I froze.

At the very end of the hall, standing in a slant of sunlight through the tall windows, was Manu. His shoulders rigid, expression carefully composed, but his tone carried that unheard thread of tension.

Manu (voice respectful, subdued): “…Yes, Sir. I will be here.”

And with him—

My breath caught. My eyes darted, widened.

Standing across from him, dignified and calm, was another figure. One I had never expected to see here.

Me (internally, a jolt roaring through me): Wait… is that—

Amrit (his voice smooth, authoritative): “That would be good.”

Me (internally, heart skipping a beat): Mr. Doobay? 😳⚡👁️

Walking deliberately toward the two men, I steadied my breath.

Me (voice even, polite): “Hello, Manu. Mr. Doobay — good afternoon. I didn’t expect to meet you here.”

Beside me, Lima smiled politely in greeting. Amrit gave us both a small, measured nod.

Amrit (smooth, urbane): “Miss Khan. Miss Berg. An unexpected meeting indeed.” ✨

Manu (stiff, startled, blurting): “Amala?!”

His shock was almost too much; I resisted the urge to wince.

Amrit’s eyes, however, twinkled with curiosity.

Amrit: “Are you an avid reader, Miss Khan?”

Me (lightly, trying not to stumble): “I’m looking for some information. I thought Manu might help me again — he knows this place better than anyone.”

Manu sputtered. His gaze darted between me and Amrit, utterly unsettled.

Manu: “I… you… I didn’t know you and Mr. Doobay…”

Me (finishing smoothly): “…knew each other?”

Manu swallowed hard, muttering.

Manu: “Yes. Exactly. Actually, you—caught us at… the wrong time.”

My eyes flicked to the side — and froze.

The heavy wooden door, the one Manu had once sworn was locked tight, stood wide open. The secret library.

Me (internally, a knot of shock tightening in my chest): I should at least act surprised. Don’t give myself away.

I pointed, widening my eyes slightly.

Me (with feigned innocence): “Oh my… is that a hidden door?” 😮

Amrit’s lips curved into a smile — amused, knowing, deliberate. The kind of smile that made me feel small, like a fool casually walking into a game already lost.

Amrit (silken, controlled): “Yes. To my library. I keep my family’s private collection of books there.” 📚✨

Me (internally, startled): So… it’s his family who owns this entire section? Manu had mentioned a Brahmin family guarding the texts… and it turns out—it’s him.* Amrit Doobay.*

I drew in a shallow breath, forcing composure, smoothing the turmoil into polite words.

Me: “How wonderful. You must be… quite an influential person.”

Amrit (smiling faintly, almost dismissive): “To a certain extent.”

Lima, oblivious to the weight in the room, chimed in brightly.

Lima: “Yashvi told me about your family.” 🌸

Amrit inclined his head with practiced calm. Manu, however, remained utterly silent — his face a mask of unease, the corners of his mouth tight, his hands restless.

Meanwhile, my own skin prickled, uneasiness whispering up my spine.

Me (internally, a stab of dread): I stole a book from Amrit Doobay’s private collection. His family’s library. God. I should say something — clear the air before suspicion hardens. 💀🕯️

I nodded at Amrit with my most understanding look, smoothing my voice into polite admiration.

Me: “I’ve heard that wealthy Brahmin families own the original versions of the most valuable texts. If I had such unique books in my collection, I wouldn’t leave the library for a single moment.” 📚✨

Amrit’s lips curved faintly, eyes gleaming with a hint of amusement.

Amrit (mild, teasing): “We keep many different books. But tell me… would you really be excited by any reading material?”

Me (without hesitation, a spark lighting in my voice): “I’m especially drawn to scriptures on Shaktism. That branch of Hinduism fascinates me. The originals hold details you’ll never find in plain interpretations.” 🔱🔥

At that, Amrit raised his brows ever so slightly… then nodded, approval flickering across his face, sharp and assessing.

Amrit (calm, but eyes keen): “We think alike, Miss Khan. Would you like to look at my books? Just for a minute?”

I froze, blinking at him.

Me (startled, almost breathless): “Me? Can I?” 😳

Amrit (smooth, coaxing): “This is your first visit to Calcutta, isn’t it? Then stepping into a private library filled with invaluable copies would be… perhaps, a pleasant memory of your trip.”

Me (unable to hide a smile, voice trembling with excitement): “It’s more than I could ever dream of!”

Amrit (low, deliberate): “Then come. I’ll let you look, though please—do not touch anything. Many of the texts are too fragile.”

I nodded eagerly, trying to keep my composure though my heart hammered wildly.

Me: “Of course. Just seeing them will be enough.” 🙏✨

Behind me, Lima gave me a small smile, adjusting her scarf.

Lima: “I’ll wait here for you, okay?”

Amrit (gesturing toward Manu, in that subtly commanding tone): “Then let Manu show you this section, Miss Berg. He is educated enough to speak English with you.”

Manu (quietly, almost stiff): “…Alright.”

My nerves tingled as Amrit turned and beckoned me closer. His graceful hand invited but his gaze bound me like a thread.

Amrit (silken, final): “Let’s go.”

After a brief walk through the dark, narrow corridor, the air changed.

I stepped once again into the secret section of the library. At once, it was like a memory returning whole — the smell of aged paper thick in the air, the dim glow of shaded lamps, the endless walls of texts pressing in with centuries of silence. 📚✨

Nothing had changed. The shelves loomed, heavy with wisdom or curses, I couldn’t tell.

Amrit moved further inside with the confidence of a man on his throne. He sank easily into a wide sofa, crossing one leg over the other, his posture casual but radiating control. His eyes lingered on me curiously, almost expectant.

Amrit (smooth): “Do you like it?”

I let my gaze sweep over the massive shelves and the shadows between them, then nodded carefully.

Me (measured): “It’s… impressive.”

Choosing my movements deliberately, I sat down opposite him, careful to keep my composure.

He folded his hands loosely, his tone suddenly softer.

Amrit: “My family has been collecting these books for generations. Would you care to know more about it?”

Me (leaning in slightly, alert): “Of course. I’m all ears.”

My eyes didn’t leave him. I studied his face, his voice, the weight in his words.

Amrit (nodding once, satisfied): “Good. Since I come from a Brahmin family, my ancestors once had nothing. They gave away all their possessions in devotion — feeding the poor, serving their dharma. The duty of scripture scholars is to uphold knowledge, not wealth.”

Me (softly): “Yes. I know.”

His tone shifted, carrying something darker.

Amrit: “My ancestors said: ‘The soul is immortal. The body is not. Take care of what is eternal.’ And so, many of these books were given to them — gifts from kings, nobles, patrons of power. Over time, the descendants kept them as heirlooms… even when they ceased living like true Brahmins. We became custodians of a treasure. The Doobays now specialize in sacred texts. Generations have amassed a wealth of knowledge our forefathers could never have imagined.” 📜👁️

His eyes glinted.

Me (after a pause, careful, probing): “Do you prefer this way of life… to a poor, but spiritual one?”

Amrit’s lips curled, half-smile sharp.

Amrit (smooth, dismissive): “Who said spirituality is possible only with empty hands? I serve the gods better when I am satisfied, at ease. It is much harder to worship when every thought is consumed by how to get a fresh roti.” 🍞

Silence fell between us like a cloak.

I let my gaze wander to the shelves, the carved furniture, but every time my eyes trailed even slightly toward him, I found his stare waiting. Direct. Intense. Too bold. Too open.

His look wasn’t polite curiosity. It was defiance — even challenge. It made the air buzz strange and hot. My skin prickled and I shifted uneasily in my seat, wishing his eyes would soften just for a second.

Instead, his gaze only sharpened.

Amrit (leaning forward suddenly, voice silken but cutting): “Manu mentioned that he has been helping a foreign woman in this section. One who seemed very… interested in a particular symbol. Something belonging to the goddess Kali.”

He tilted his head, studying the flicker in my expression.

Amrit (low, deliberate): “Tell me, Miss Khan. Are you interested in her?” 🕯️🖤

Me (choosing my words carefully, lips taut): “Well… she is worthy of attention and study. The more I immerse myself in the texts about her, the more I’m convinced of just how much wisdom lies within it all.” 🌑🔱

Amrit’s expression didn’t change much — just the faintest flick of acknowledgment in his eyes.

Amrit (short, smooth): “I understand.”

He rose gracefully to his feet, movements unhurried, his presence filling the dim library once more.

Amrit: “Come. I’ll walk you out. I have to get back to work.”

Me (standing quickly, collecting myself): “Yes…”

We moved toward the corridor. His steps were silent but deliberate, mine measured.

Amrit: “Manu will assist you with any book you seek. Take advantage of his skills while he’s still here.”

I blinked, surprised.

Me: “Is he… going somewhere?”

Amrit gave a disdainful half-grin.

Amrit: “Manu is getting married. And it will be a… considerable inconvenience to find another librarian for this section.”

His tone was casual, but there was something in it — something dismissive, almost mocking — that made Manu’s silent loyalty ache sharper in my thoughts.

We neared the exit. My breath steadied… until my eyes flicked sideways.

And froze.

The shelf. The very place where the Mahanirvana Tantra had been.

My chest clenched. My pulse lurched.

Me (internally, heart thundering): No. Impossible. That book— the one I stole. It’s back. Right there on the shelf. Exactly where it used to be. But how? 💀📖

Sharp panic cut through my chest.

I lost it—it disappeared in the house, I couldn’t find it, no matter where I searched. And now… here it is. Back in its rightful place. How—how is that possible?!

My throat went dry, my stomach twisted. I stared too long, trembling inside.

And in that distracted moment, I failed to notice Amrit slowing — watching me.

And then… I stumbled — colliding right into his chest.

Me (startled): “Oh!”

Before I could fall, Amrit instinctively caught me by the arms. His grip was firm, surprising, the warmth of his skin sparking against mine. His face was close, his brows raised with genuine surprise.

Amrit (soft, questioning): “Miss Khan?”

I clutched his sleeves tightly to steady myself. In that moment, I caught it — the distinct scent clinging to him. Tart, sweet… dark chocolate melted with sandalwood and a faint cherry note. It wasn’t just perfume. It was Amrit Doobay himself. 🌹🔥

Me (breathless): “I—I’m sorry…”

But my head turned—almost without meaning to—toward the shelf. My eyes lingered a second too long where that book rested, traitorously back in its place. When I lifted my gaze again, Amrit was watching me. And then… he grinned. Self-confident. Knowing.

Amrit (teasing, silk threaded with mockery): “What were you looking at? Me?” 😉

Me (flustered, defensive): “What? No!”

I pulled back quickly. In the movement, our hands brushed — skin against skin.

Me (internally, heart slamming): His skin… gods, it’s so hot. 🔥🫀

Amrit (low, almost amused): “Be careful.”

We stepped out into the common hall where Manu was waiting, stiff as always. Amrit’s gaze slid over me once more, pausing not on my eyes but my outfit — the lilac salwar kameez, still new, still radiant.

Amrit (smoothly): “You don’t look like someone who just came to visit the library. Very pretty.” His smile flickered as he added, “I believe I’ll see you again, Miss Khan. And Miss Berg.” 👁️

With that parting prophecy, Mr. Doobay turned and disappeared back into the shadows of his library.

Manu lingered outside with us, his discomfort palpable.

Manu (hurriedly): “Here—this should be the book you need. I’d gladly help you decode it, but Mr. Doobay won’t like it if I’m gone too long. I should get back.”

He muttered a quick goodbye and left.

Lima (brimming with curiosity): “What kind of book is this?”

Me (lowering my voice): “It’s about the Brahmi script. I want to figure out the meaning of that symbol… the one carved into Rose’s skin.”

Lima (grimaces slightly, then smiles): “All right. I’ll wander around a bit while you read. These shelves… they remind me of my childhood.” 📖

That caught my attention.

Me: “Do you have pleasant memories… associated with books?”

Lima (eyes softening, her smile touched with nostalgia): “Yes. Grandpa always read to me when my parents left me in his care. They worked night and day. But Grandpa — he was also a criminologist. He read me detective stories. Together we’d analyze the clues, establish motives, pretend we were the detectives ourselves. It’s funny, isn’t it? After all these years… I chose his exact path.”

Her voice trembled with affection.

Me (warm, sincere): “That’s not funny, Lima. That’s wonderful. You’re a great criminologist.” 🌸

Lima (smiling brighter, eyes glassy): “Thank you. I think he would have been proud of me. Against all odds, I reached my goal. All right — I’ll leave you to it. I’m nearby if you need me.”

I nodded, touched, and opened the book.

Me (thinking, immersed): In Devanagari, the symbol looks similar to the number five. That was my first thought when I saw it — but on the palm, it was drawn messily, not neatly. Different. It didn’t match Devanagari. It must be more ancient…

My fingers pressed the paper, tracing the script.

Yes — Brahmi. From Brahmi, other languages were born — including Bengali, common right here in West Bengal. But even deeper… some scholars claim Brahmi itself came from the Indus script. Harappan. Codes carved thousands of years ago, still haunting our present.

My breath steadied, pulled into the rhythm of symbols and their shadows.

Me (thinking, chilling realization): For whom did the killer leave this sign? Was it a personal message, meant only for someone who could understand? Not for us... Or—worse—did he leave it purposely for me, waiting for me to connect the dots? 👁️🩸

Me (thinking, sharp focus): I’ll look for this Brahmi sign in the chapter on numbers.

Pages whispered as I turned them, scanning the neat columns of ancient tables. My eyes darted from symbol to symbol, heart racing faster with every discovery.

Me (internally): Brahmi numerology has seeped into so many languages, twisted and reshaped with time. The “five” in late Devanagari… it’s so close to… wait. Wait—oh!

My breath hitched.

The symbol seared into Rose’s palm — it was the number six in Brahmi.

Me (thoughts pounding): The number six. What was the killer telling us? Was it a mark? A grim ledger — that this was the sixth victim?

A swirl of dread churned in my gut, sweat dampening my palms.

Me (thinking, almost frantic): Or… a deception? The “five” in Devanagari and the “six” in Brahmi look nearly identical. Gods, what if this is meant to confuse us? What if I’m wrong?

I rapped my fingers nervously on the wooden desk, the hollow thumps filling the silence.

Me (internal resolve hardening): No — I can’t hesitate. I need to call a meeting immediately. I’m the leader; it’s my responsibility. The killer is playing with ancient rules and we have to decipher them before more die.

I stood abruptly.

Me (firm, urgent): “Lima! We’re leaving. We need to meet with Killian urgently.”

She blinked, startled, but nodded. I didn’t explain more. Words could wait until the others were gathered. My discovery pressed like a fire in my chest.

We hurried out into the street — and stepped right into a boil of noise. The air was thick with dozens of voices, layered with panic and outrage.

Me (looking around, unsettled): “What’s going on here?”

Lima (frowning, hesitant): “Maybe something… happened?”

We pushed into the throng. The hot crowd pressed in, restless, muttering, faces sharp with anger. And there — standing at the edge — I saw a familiar figure. Lakshman, the policeman who had helped me once before.

I made my way toward him, tugging Lima behind me. The crowd resisted us, but we pushed through.

He caught sight of me — and his expression shifted. His face fell, then rearranged itself into a tired, friendly smile.

Lakshman (holding out a hand, coaxing me closer): “Miss Khan? Come. This way.”

He pulled me out of the throng’s grip. Lima stayed close, watchfully silent.

Me (quick, pressing): “What’s happened here?”

Lakshman exhaled, brushing it off with a wave.

Lakshman: “Nothing special. A dowry killing.”

Me (shocked): “A what?” 😳

Before he could answer, another voice broke in — sharper, angrier, rawer.

A young woman stepped forward, fire burning in her eyes.

Girl: “They killed her! Because of the damn dowry!” 🔥

Lakshman (turning sharply, irritated): “Priya, shut up. I told you — we’ll figure it out.”

But she refused silence. Her voice rose, slicing through the crowd like a blade.

Priya (furious, trembling): “Figure it out? I know how you solve these cases — you do NOTHING! To hell with me, but Lata?! She didn’t deserve this!”

Gasps rippled through those standing nearby.

Lakshman (gritting his teeth, cold): “I said be quiet!”

Priya spun on her heel. She shoved her way through the crowd, people recoiling, brushing themselves off where she touched them as though she carried plague.

The murmurs rose, then fractured into uneasy silence. Lima watched her go, frowning.

I turned back to Lakshman, unsettled by both voices — his cool dismissal, her fiery rage.

Me (tight): “What happened here? Truly?”

Lakshman (flat, indifferent): “Don’t pay attention. It happens. Nothing we can do about it. A family quarrel in Dispur… it ended tragically.” His tone dismissed whole lives like smoke in the wind.

Me (quiet, resigned): “I see…”

Lakshman: “Please go. I have to deal with this.”

His attention slipped away from me like I no longer mattered. He drifted back to the ring of officers, ignoring the crowd’s mutters.

I lingered, torn. My discovery screamed for urgency — yet… this bloody reality tugged at me.

Me (internally, tense): A dowry killing. In this city, yet another kind of cruelty gnawing at women’s lives. I have more important things to do — evidence, meetings, catching a killer. And yet… Priya. She knows something. She feels it. A few words with her can’t hurt.

I turned to Lima.

Me (gentle but firm): “Wait for me here, all right? I’ll catch up with that woman and see what she knows.”

Lima (confused, protesting): “But—why would you do that?”

I didn’t answer. Instead, I hurried after the young woman, calling out.

Me: “Priya, right?”

She froze mid-step. Slowly, she turned.

Her eyes — dark, burning, sharp — met mine.

Priya: “Yes. What do you want?” 👁️⚡

Me (carefully, with quiet urgency): “I’m very interested in this… in understanding. You’d help me a lot if you could explain what’s going on. Am I keeping you?”

Priya (shaking her head, arms crossing tightly over her chest, eyes blazing): “No.”

Her voice cut the air like a knife.

Priya: “Lata was from a good family. A respectable girl. She had an arranged marriage, as so many of us do. But her groom’s family asked for more. More money. Always more. They drained her family dry — and when the money ran out, they threatened to kill her if they didn’t get more.”

Me (stunned, whispering): “What?”

Priya (mocking my shock, almost spitting): “Don’t you get it? Did you come from the moon, or what? You live in India and you know nothing about this?”

Me (caught, stammering): “Well… it’s a long story…”

And then the thought struck me like a hammer — realization hitting cold and brutal.

Me (internally, heart sinking): I’ve just walked past another murder scene.

Cruelty thick in the air. Cruelty everywhere.

Priya (bitter, unflinching): “Anyway. Let me explain. Lata was given a choice. Just like I was. If her parents couldn’t find the money, she would either be killed and replaced… or she would start working. And the job?” Her mouth twisted in disgust. “Not pleasant. But profitable. You understand what I mean?”

Me (horrified): “What? Is that even legal?!”

Priya (laughing bitterly, sharp as glass): “If you don’t care about your wife, your neighbors’ opinions, and you make friends with the right people — then everything is legal. Everything.”

Her voice rang with despair wrapped in venom.

Me (voice trembling): “Wait… but you said… just like you?”

Priya (chin lifting, unbowed, defiant): “Figure it out. Yes. I’m a prostitute. And I’m alive. Lata refused. She wouldn’t give in — and now she’s dead. We were married to brothers. Brothers just like their father — greedy, filthy bastards. They bled my family for money and reminded me every night they could strangle me in my sleep.”

Me (recoiling, horrified): “That’s horrific!” 😨

Priya (fury bursting out): “It is! That’s what life looks like for us! So I hope you can convince Laki to take this seriously. Lata was good. She deserved better. Don’t let her case rot in the gutter, forgotten like hundreds of others.”

Her face hardened.

Priya: “But now… I have nothing more to say to you.”

She spun on her heel and strode away, her back rigid, her voice still ringing in my ears.

I just stood there, frozen, rooted to the dust and sorrow of the street.

Me (internally, empty, aching): Now I remember… Grandma always told me: dowry plays a dangerous, powerful role in matchmaking in India. And I’m seeing it — raw, cruel, bloody reality breathing in front of me. 💔

After a while, Lima and I finally made it back into the embassy, the contrast like stepping from fire into stone.

Killian was already there, standing in the hallway waiting for us, rigid and expectant. We didn’t go to the meeting room. None of us wanted to walk past Mr. Rose’s empty chair — a grotesque reminder of everything lost. 🪑⚰️

I hadn’t even invited Ratan Vaish. The information was too specific — too dangerous. And besides… I still felt his shadow heavy on me. Intimidating. Watching.

Me (quiet): “Hello again…”

Killian (clipped, direct): “Do you have important information? I came as soon as you called.”

Me (steadying breath, heart hammering): “Yes.”

Lima’s eyes turned on me, wide, intent, waiting.

I closed my eyes for a moment, then let the words out.

Me: “I think there are actually five or six victims in total — not four. There are bodies out there we don’t even know about.”

P.S. Oh my storm-kissed darlings, can you feel it? 😳 The shadows aren’t loosening, they’re tightening—strangling us with secrets. First, Amrit’s silken words and that cursed library, then the sickening stink of dowry deaths on Calcutta’s streets, and now—boom!—the revelation that our killer may have claimed not four lives, but five… maybe even six. 👁️🩸 Six souls lost. Six heads stolen. Six offerings to the Dark Mother? Or is this only the beginning?

And tell me honestly, loves—did your heart skip at Amrit catching Amala, so close, so heated 🔥… or are you burning more from Priya’s furious truth, her raw fire that refuses to be silenced? ⚡ Which of these two encounters rattled you more—the dangerous charm of secrets, or the naked cruelty of reality?

Spill your thoughts below, little conspirators—I crave them like whispers in the night. 🕯️

—Your Mistress of Midnight Masala 💋✨🌑