My long day had drained every ounce of energy from me. I reached for the half-full bottle of Macallan 1946 single malt, hoping it would do what it always did—blur the edges of my thoughts, lull me into sleep.

  Until now, my past had never haunted me. My discoveries had always been transactions—stories sold to media houses, mysteries unraveled for others to marvel at while I moved on, untouched. It was survival. It was business. But tonight was different.

  Tonight, my mind refused to obey.

  The screaming caves of Meghalaya, where people had been buried alive—their final cries still clawing at the stone walls. The town in Rajasthan that had ceased to exist overnight, leaving behind only whispers and dust. The lighthouse where sailors died with injuries from a crash that had never happened.

  Bones. Scratches. Unidentified screams. Faces I had studied in forensic reports, their twisted expressions frozen in time.

  It was a horror show, but I was the only audience.

  And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped.

  An eerie stillness followed. The weight that had crushed my chest lifted, the air in the room felt softer, lighter. As if something unseen had… left.

  And that was when I sank into the deepest, most undisturbed sleep of my life.

  Not a restless, haunted sleep. Not the sleep of a man seeking escape.

  But the sleep of someone who had finally been claimed by something far beyond himself.

  I woke up to the soft daylight streaming through the curtains, a strange lightness in my chest—as if some invisible weight had been lifted overnight. The kind of sleep I hadn’t had in years.

  A knock at the door. Before I could answer, it opened just enough for Narodji to step inside.

  “We will be serving breakfast shortly. Till then, perhaps you’d like to freshen up and join us downstairs,” he said, his tone polite, measured.

  “Sure,” I replied, running a hand through my hair. Then, for reasons I couldn't quite explain, I blurted out, “Aren’t you going to ask if I slept well?”

  Narodji’s expression didn’t shift. “You certainly slept well enough to not feel the tremors of the earthquake that occurred.”

  I straightened. “An earthquake?”

  “5.2 magnitude,” he said, his gaze flickering briefly to the painting on the wall—completely intact. No fallen frames, no displaced furniture. Just stillness.

  As he left, my thoughts swarmed. A 5.2 earthquake… and yet I slept through it? Nothing in this room is even slightly disturbed.

  I took a quick shower, the warm water doing little to wash away my unease, and made my way to the dining hall. That’s when I saw it—evidence of the tremors everywhere. Broken frames, shards of glass from the grand chandelier, chairs slightly askew.

  And yet, my room had remained untouched.

  The thought lingered as Anashya appeared from outside, a bag of groceries in one hand—milk packets, bread, eggs. She set them down effortlessly, her green eyes catching mine with an unreadable expression.

  “You look much better than last night,” she remarked, a slight grin curving her lips. "yesterday For a moment, I thought we’d have to perform an exorcism. You walked in like a man carrying the weight of a thousand ghosts—unkempt, brooding, and radiating ‘I-see-dead-people’ energy."

  “Maybe it’s the alcohol,” I joked.

  She smirked, shaking her head. “Mmm… no. Alcohol gives you a hangover. You, on the other hand, look like you just woke up from the deepest slumber of your life.”

  I raised an eyebrow, and she continued, eyes gleaming with something unreadable.

  “Or maybe you finally found a place that doesn't mind holding you.”

  I had never let a place hold me. Never stayed long enough. My life had been a series of departures, my past just a collection of stories sold for survival. But last night, after facing the ghosts of my own making, I had slept—deeply, undisturbed.

  Too undisturbed.

  Had I finally found a place to rest… or had something decided to keep me?

  I opened my mouth to reply, but she cut in before I could. “Of course, it could also just be the mattresses. High quality. Memory foam. Works wonders.”

  She paused . “Some say they feel like sinking into a dream. But the thing about dreams… they hold on to you just as much as you hold on to them.”

  “maybe I did finally found a place that doesn't mind holding me." I said in an admitting tone, something about her made me feel that she was right.

  Her smirk didn’t waver. "Careful, Divyansh. Some places hold on a little too tight." She said with a playful laugh

  Narodji signaled Anashya “ looks like breakfast has been served, hope you fancy the classic Eggs Akuri on Toast” A subtle nod to British scrambled eggs but with a Parsi twist, cooked with onions, tomatoes, green chilies, and mild spices, served on thick toast. I was looking forward to that.

  We sat on the table as narodji placed the food in the three chafing dishes. I and anashya helped ourselves and sat on the large Ornate mahogany table in the dining hall.

  Anashya placed her plate on the table and leaned forward slightly, eyes glinting with curiosity.

  “So, what do you do?” she asked, her tone casual yet probing.

  I took a sip of my tea before answering. “The old-school term is forensic anthropologist,” I said, lacing my words with a hint of sarcasm.

  “Really?” she mused, tilting her head slightly.

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  I exhaled, already expecting the usual lack of enthusiasm. “I understand it doesn’t carry the conventional thrill of a white-collar profession, but it pays the bills.”

  “Oh no, don’t get me wrong,” she said with a small smirk. “I’m sure it’s fascinating. You do have that… wanderer’s look. Like someone who’s always chasing something just beyond reach.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Chasing, or running?”

  She gave a small, knowing smile. “Maybe both.”

  .”

  I chuckled. “Well, I do explore and unravel things—secrets buried for years, answers to questions no one even knew to ask. In the end, it all boils down to making a good story for others to sell.”

  She studied me for a moment, tapping her fork against the plate. “Is that all the profession means to you?”

  I raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

  “From what I understand,” she began, leaning in as if piecing together a puzzle, “a forensic anthropologist isn’t just someone who digs up bones and sells stories. Your field is about reading the remnants of the past—deciphering what the layman’s eyes fail to see. You examine human remains to uncover the circumstances of death, the life once lived, the truth that was lost. But I’d wager… someone with your experience doesn’t just follow procedures. You see more than evidence, don’t you? Of course, you have your procedures—science and all that—but deep down, you already know what happened long before the tests confirm it, don’t you?”You reconstruct moments in time, watching events unfold as if they were happening right in front of you.”

  I didn’t respond immediately. It wasn’t often that someone actually understood the weight of my work—what it meant to piece together the last moments of a life long extinguished. The cold facts, the silent witnesses in fractured bones and faded scars.

  I sighed, stirring the remnants of my tea. “Something like that,” I admitted.

  “How long have you been doing it?”

  “It’s been seven years, on and off.”

  “You must be a delight at the dinner table then, with the kind of stories you have to tell,” she quipped, eyes twinkling with mischief.

  I let out a short chuckle. “I usually stick to more pleasant topics when I share a dinner table with others Believe it or not, people prefer their meals without a side of existential dread.,” I said, offering a content smile.

  “Pity,” she said, resting her chin on her hand “Tell me one of your stories.”

  “They’re all online if you search,” I replied, taking a sip of my tea.

  Anashya tilted her head slightly, that knowing look in her green eyes. “The online versions are just something crafted to sell, aren’t they? A few embellishments here and there, some creative liberties—it makes for a better headline. I wouldn’t really understand your side of things from that, would I?”

  She wasn’t wrong. I nodded, exhaling slowly. One of the reasons my work never really lingered in my thoughts was because, by the time my discoveries made it to the public, they had been altered—sensationalized beyond recognition. What started as my truth became a tangled web of exaggerations and editorialized drama, sculpted to fit an audience’s craving for shock and awe. By the time the story was published or uploaded, it wasn’t really mine anymore.

  "Sure, but I must warn you—some details might be unsettling. They might even steal that twinkle from your beautiful eyes."

  That was a bold slip—one I half-wished my mind had censored before it escaped. But then again, I doubted anything in this place followed conventional rules, including my own self-restraint.

  Anashya didn’t so much as blink. Instead, she leaned in slightly, a smirk tugging at her lips. “I’m a tough girl, Divyansh. I think I can handle it.”

  Her voice was playful, but her eyes… they held something else. Amusement, sure. Curiosity, definitely. But also an eerie sort of knowing, as if she wasn’t just bracing for the horror—I had the distinct feeling she had seen worse. Maybe even lived it.

  I leaned back in my chair, absently tracing the rim of my teacup. "Alright, Anashya. Since you insist, let me tell you about Kuldhara—the village that vanished overnight."

  I smirked, but the memory left a bitter taste. "It started like any other job. I was sent to document folklore, but folklore doesn’t leave bones behind." My voice lowered slightly. "I found remains—half-dissolved, brittle as old parchment—buried shallow beneath the sand, as if the desert itself had tried to swallow them whole."

  She raised an eyebrow. "And?"

  "I ran an initial assessment on-site. Standard protocol—surface-level excavation, osteological measurements, and stratigraphic positioning. The bones were oddly porous, unnaturally fragile, almost like they had been chemically eroded. That alone raised alarms. Even bones exposed to harsh climates retain a certain density, but these crumbled under the lightest pressure. It was as if something had accelerated their decomposition."

  I took a sip of my now-lukewarm tea before continuing. "Back in the lab, I ran a histological analysis—sliced a sample into thin sections and examined it under a microscope. The structure was severely compromised, riddled with microfractures that shouldn't have existed. I decided to run a stable isotope analysis to determine the environmental conditions the individual had been exposed to. That’s when it got weird."

  Anashya leaned in slightly. "Weird how?"

  "The samples showed high concentrations of mercury, which was strange but not entirely unheard of—mercury has been used in Ayurvedic medicine, and in ancient times, even as a form of poison. But what baffled me was the organic compound attached to it." I exhaled. "It wasn’t in any known database. Not biological, not synthetic—just something… foreign."

  She tapped her fingers against the table, considering. "Mercury poisoning?"

  "That’s what I thought. But mercury alone doesn’t do this. It doesn’t cause rapid decay at a cellular level." I shook my head. "Human remains take decades to break down naturally, even under extreme conditions. But these bones? They had the structural degradation of something centuries old, yet radiocarbon dating placed them at just a few decades."

  Her expression darkened slightly. "And the official records?"

  I let out a dry laugh. "They claimed there were no human remains ever found in Kuldhara. Which made it really odd when, the next day, my samples were confiscated, my research file was erased, and my access to the database was revoked."

  She tilted her head. "And the site?"

  I leaned in slightly, lowering my voice. "Sealed off that same week. No more digging, no more questions."

  A long silence settled between us before she smirked. "Sounds like you pissed off the wrong people."

  I swirled the last of my tea, watching it ripple. "Or the wrong people were always watching."

  "The story that got published didn’t even get the name of the place right. Instead, it was riddled with nonsense—aliens, secret cults, a cursed village lost in time. The truth? Buried under layers of fiction, just like those bones. And I couldn’t correct it, because by then, whatever proof I had... was gone."

  “Intriguing,” Anashya mused, setting down her fork. I hadn’t even realized we’d finished breakfast somewhere in the midst of my little anecdote.

  “You can place your dishes by the sink,” she said, effortlessly collecting her own.

  I stood, stretching slightly. “I’m thinking of heading out to explore. Any recommendations?”

  Anashya chuckled. “You’re chasing another adventure, I see.”

  “Not quite,” I smirked. “I think I’ve had my fill of those for a lifetime. Just looking for a quiet spot, somewhere I can actually hear myself think. Maybe soak in some nature… and then find some decent alcohol to round off the day.”

  She tapped her chin, pretending to consider. “In that case, you might like the city market at Balkhang Chowk. Or the Tibetan Market at Main Bazaar—lots of interesting finds there.”

  “I’ll check it out,” I said, slinging my backpack over my shoulder.

  At the time, it all felt perfectly normal. Breakfast was done, the conversation lingered pleasantly in my mind, and the day stretched ahead of me, open and unassuming. I slung my backpack over my shoulder, ready to explore, my thoughts occupied with nothing more than the promise of a quiet walk and a stiff drink to end the evening.

  I had no reason to think twice as I stepped out of the dining hall. No reason to notice the way the air sat heavier than before. No reason to question why, when I passed the mirror in the corridor, I felt—just for a second—like something had been watching me walk away.

  It would take me much longer to realize that was the last moment of real normalcy I would ever have.

  Because from the moment I stepped outside, everything changed.

  And by the time I understood that, it was already far too late.

  There’s a moment, just before the fall, when everything feels still.You mistake it for peace. But it’s not.It’s surrender.

  In this chapter, Divyansh begins to feel that quiet—the kind that doesn’t comfort, but claims. He believes he’s finding rest, connection, maybe even meaning. But what he’s really finding is gravity—something deeper than sleep, older than memory, and far more patient than him.

  Anashya is not what she seems. The house is not what it seems. And neither is he.

  The line between who we are and what waits for us in the dark is thinner than we’d like to admit.

  And once you cross it... you never truly come back.