"When the forest doesn't whisper your name back...
It means it's already swallowed you whole."
The soft golden glow of the Bhairavpur morning was a stark contrast to the uneasy silence that lay beneath it. Birds chirped with uncanny coordination, too synchronized, too perfect—as if they too were trying to deceive the newcomers with calm before something trembled in the air.
The group was still adjusting to their unexpected disconnection from the world. With their phones confiscated by the local police under the pretense of protocol, they now roamed in a quiet bubble of helplessness, their connection to comfort severed.
The house where they stayed had turned into a basecamp of frustration. But as they were trying to laugh it off with some leftover breakfast and passive bickering, a sharp knock shattered their quiet.
It wasn't the police. It wasn't a villager. It was a woman—her saree torn, her hair disheveled, eyes sunk with weeks of terror and lack of sleep. She looked barely thirty, but life had painted her face with age.
"Please," she said, tears balancing on the edge of her lashes, "you are outsiders, not part of... this. You have to help me find my daughter."
No one said anything for a while. Even Kabir, who usually led the conversation with confidence, stood frozen. It was Abhay who took a step forward, carefully hiding the spark in his eyes.
"Where did you last see her?" he asked.
The woman trembled. "At the fair. Two days ago. She was holding my hand. Then the lights blinked. When they came back... she was gone."
"What did the police say?" asked Megha from behind, softly.
"They said she ran away. That children do that. But she didn't. She wouldn't. Please... you must help me."
Kabir finally spoke up. "We will. But we need to split up. Half of us will search around the village. Others should go to the station and try to talk to the constable again. Maybe get our phones back."
The group reluctantly agreed. Priya, Abhay, and Rahul decided to stay in the village and check local stalls, quiet alleyways, and any temples nearby. Kabir, Megha, and Ishaan would head to the police station again—this time not just to talk, but to find a way to sneak their phones out.
Group One: Village Search
The local village shops were just opening. Priya took the lead, her scarf tied tight as if shielding her from whatever unseen presence the place carried. Abhay walked beside her, unusually quiet. Rahul brought up the rear, his eyes darting toward every child he saw.
At the sweet shop, they found a man who remembered seeing the girl. "She had a blue hairclip. She asked for paan... strange for a child that young."
"Did she pay?" asked Abhay.
"No. But someone did," he said, scratching his head. "I thought it was her father. He had a mole on his eye... not from here."
Priya's heart skipped a beat.
"Not from here?"
The man nodded. "Didn't speak our dialect either. But he smiled. Like this." He curled his lips into something unnatural. Not wide. Just... wrong.
Abhay's gaze drifted toward a temple on the hill. "We should check that place. Kids are drawn to bells and lights."
But what they found there was nothing short of strange. Near the back of the temple was a rusted swing, unmoving despite the breeze.
And a small blue hairclip.
Priya ran toward it, almost stumbling. "It's hers! The woman described it!"
Abhay bent down and picked it up. "Then we're close. Or someone wants us to think we are."
Rahul turned pale. "Look at this."
On the back wall of the temple, drawn faintly in chalk, was a symbol. A spiral, broken at the end.
Abhay's eyes narrowed. He didn't say anything. But he knew that symbol.
Group Two: Police Station
Kabir's group walked into the station with overly polite smiles and desperate eyes. The constable behind the desk raised a brow.
"Back again? What now?"
"We just wanted to ask," Kabir said slowly, "if you found any trace of the missing girl."
"No report was filed. No proof. It's gossip. Villagers lose their kids every month."
Megha stepped forward. "But what if it's not just one? What if there's a pattern?"
The constable squinted. "You think you know this village better than us? You city folks... always looking for stories."
"Look," said Ishaan, trying a different angle, "at least let us check our phones once. We left important files for our college submissions."
The constable smirked. "They are in the evidence box. Behind lock and key. You want to sneak in? Try."
Kabir noticed the key on his belt.
They had no chance there.
But as they were leaving, a younger constable passed them in the hallway. He looked troubled.
"You're searching for a girl, right?" he asked in a low whisper.
Kabir nodded.
The constable leaned in. "Check the old post office. No one goes there anymore. You might find... stories."
And then he was gone.
The groups met again near sunset. The air had shifted.
The wind had picked up but not with coolness—with dust. Biharapur seemed to be holding its breath.
Priya handed the blue hairclip to the woman, who clutched it like a sacred relic. Her tears were silent.
"We need to go to that post office," said Kabir. "Tomorrow morning. First light."
They agreed. But Abhay lingered, staring at the spiral symbol he had redrawn in his notebook.
"Sometimes, the ones who beg for help are
only bait for what's watching behind them."