“ What did you hear ? “ I asked.
“A call comes from the police station to confirm whether you were staying here. The first call from the station in years in which I am the witness not the suspect” Anashya chuckled, she was clearly referring to the time Esha Mehta was killed.
“Did they say anything else?” I asked
“An old women orchestrating a trafficking case is something they mentioned, I’m torn between being disturbed or laughing out loud—but credit where it’s due, life really knows how to keep things interesting. “
“welcome to the club” I smirked.
We both shared a laugh, I liked this side of her, witty yet bold and always in control. It was like nothing affected her.
And it definitely dragged me out of the dark chain of thoughts my mind had been weaving.
Anashya walked down the round staircase and made her way towards the sofa I was sitting on.
“ Would you like a drink” she asked
“ Sure, the solution here does seem to be some alcohol” I joked. She laughed. There was something about her laughter that showed a sign of innocence and sweetness yet maintained that authority. Almost as it was honey glazed and sturdy.
Yet it was far more comforting than the rest of the reactions the people had given me since I arrived at Anant Vraj.
Anashya walked over to the antique wine cabinet tucked into the corner of the drawing room and pulled out a dark, dust-kissed bottle. The label was faded with time, the cork slightly brittle — a seasoned vintage that had clearly waited for the right kind of night.
“The glasses are in the second cabinet in the pantry,” she called out, already halfway to the kitchen with an ice tray in hand.
I made my way to the pantry, opened the cabinet, and carefully pulled out two slender-stemmed wine glasses. I brought them back and placed them on the low wooden table between us.
Anashya returned, the ice cracking slightly in the tray as it adjusted to the warmth of the room. She poured just a quarter of the ruby liquid into each glass, letting it tumble over the cubes with a muted clink. Then, with a quiet flourish, she slid my glass toward me — the universal sign that questions were coming.
“So,” she said, settling onto the armchair with her own drink in hand, “what happened?”
“I think the kind officer already filled you in on the basics.”
“Hmm,” she said, raising an eyebrow, “Would you rather I believe his version of the story… or should I hear yours first and then decide whose is funnier?”
She chuckled — that lilting, bell-clear laugh that somehow made even morbid things sound like gossip at a garden party. It was a running joke between us. And like all good inside jokes, it only got funnier the more times it was used.
I sank into the second armchair next to the dining table, the upholstery soft and aged like it had absorbed decades of silent conversations. I took a slow sip of the wine and began narrating the events of the day — detail by detail, word by word — like peeling back layers of something I hadn’t quite understood myself.
As I spoke, I noticed the change in Anashya. The cheerful lightness that usually danced behind her eyes slowly dimmed. Her playful smirk melted into something heavier — something lined with worry, maybe even remorse. She didn’t interrupt, just listened… until I stopped.
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“Do you still have it?” she asked, her voice low, careful.
“Have what?”
“The book,” she said, locking eyes with me. “The one the bookseller handed you. Is it still with you?”
“Yeah, I guess…” I reached for my bag and rummaged through it. There it was — the strange, brittle old thing — nestled between my notes and a pen that had leaked slightly.
“Why’d you bring it back?” she asked quietly. “If you couldn’t understand what was written in it… why didn’t you just leave it there?”
I paused, trying to frame my answer. “I don’t know,” I said, shrugging. “Maybe I thought I’d stumble on its meaning eventually. Might even make for a good story to tell at dinner parties,” I added, trying to lift the mood with a half-smile.
But she didn’t smile back.
The sunset had draped itself across the windows in long golden streaks, casting a dusky hue over the guesthouse. The chandelier above flickered to life, washing the lobby in soft, amber light. The guesthouse adopted a golden brownish appearance that shrouded the intense silence that was the backdrop of our conversation.
“Let me guess,” she said, swirling the wine in her glass without meeting my eyes. “You didn’t have to pay anything for the book, did you now?”
“No,” I replied, raising an eyebrow. “He said it was on the house. Though… he did seem a little rattled when I mentioned I was staying here.”
Anashya let out a short, knowing laugh and shook her head slowly. “Of course he was.”
She took a sip, her eyes drifting to the window where the sun was now just a smear of orange behind the hills. For a moment, it felt like she wasn’t even in the room with me.
“You know,” she began again, her voice gentler this time, “sometimes things find their way into our lives not because they’re meant to—but because they’re lost. Or worse, because they’re looking for someone who won’t know any better than to carry them further. Doesn’t mean we owe them space.””
I looked at her, unsure of what she meant. “You mean the book?”
She finally glanced at me, the smile on her lips tight and brief. “I’m just saying… not every mystery needs to be solved. Some are just… fragments. Leftovers from things that should have ended a long time ago.”
I followed her gaze to my bag on the floor. The book’s silhouette sat quietly, like a coiled secret.
“It might make a good story one day,” I said with a half-hearted grin, trying to ease the tension.
Anashya chuckled, but it was quieter now. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s the kind of story that changes you before you get to the last page.”
She stood and walked over to the window, her back to me. “You don’t have to throw it out,” she said, almost absentmindedly. “Just… don’t let it sit too close. Some things don’t like being ignored. And some don’t like being remembered.”
Then, as if sensing the weight of her own words, she turned around and raised her glass with a sudden flash of cheer.
“To strange books, and stranger days.” She stood quietly for a moment, her gaze lingering on the book I had carelessly tossed beside my bag. Then, without another word, she turned and began walking towards the staircase that led to her bedroom.
“Don’t you want to hear the rest of the story?” I asked from behind, unsure whether I’d crossed a line or just stirred something I didn’t fully understand yet.
She paused mid-step. “Maybe later,” she replied over her shoulder. “I can only handle so much gore in one day. I’ll need more wine for the rest—and unfortunately, I’d like to stay coherent tonight “ She lingered for a second more, then added, “Dinner’s at nine.”
As she began to ascend the stairs, she spoke again, this time without turning back.
“Your car’s back, by the way. The owner of the wash center wasn’t exactly thrilled when he saw the state it was in. I had to slip him a little extra to make him work on a Sunday.”
“You can add that to my tab,” I said, trying to return some levity.
She didn’t laugh. Just stopped at the landing and replied, almost absently, “I already did.”
And then she disappeared into the her bedroom, leaving behind the scent of wine and something far older—like unfinished conversations and half-buried memories.
I glanced at her half-full wine glass, the light from the chandelier catching on its rim like a warning left mid-sentence. Something about the way she’d changed—so subtly, so precisely—haunted me. Fear had no place on her face, and yet I’d seen it. Not a flinch, not a tremor… but a flicker in her eyes, sharp and uninvited, the moment I mentioned the book.
There were too many questions and not enough answers. Was the book somehow linked to the forgotten rot that lingered beneath the polished floors of Anant Vraj? Was it a thread in the tangled tragedy of Esha Mehta’s case—something too dangerous for her to speak aloud? She’d clearly tried to dissuade me from keeping it, but why? Was she shielding me from some lurking malice… or shielding herself by keeping her role in the dark?
The thought festered like a slow poison: was she a reluctant guardian, or a beautifully veiled threat?
I was split clean down the middle. A part of me knew I needed the truth—every fractured, brutal inch of it. And I needed to hear it from her.
Because despite everything... a part of me still wanted to believe that Anashya was on the right side of this. That behind the haunted look in her eyes, there was someone fighting the dark, not feeding it.And maybe—just maybe—that part of me wasn’t chasing the truth anymore.Maybe it was chasing her.
He should have let the book go. But some hands were made for holding the wrong things.
And maybe Anashya knew that. Maybe that’s why she poured the wine just so. Maybe that’s why she never quite looked him in the eyes after sunset.
There’s a line between being protected and being watched. He still doesn’t know which side she’s on.
But something inside him—some old, bruised part—wants to believe she’s on his side. Wants to believe that if the darkness ever reaches for him…she’ll reach back.
That kind of belief?That’s not bravery. That’s the first step toward surrender.