The rain showed no mercy that night. Heavy droplets kept slamming against the bus window, each strike echoing like a drumbeat in the silence of the dark hills. The wipers fought tirelessly, sweeping away streams of water, but the world outside remained a blur—shadows of trees, flickering streetlights, and mist rolling down the slopes like restless spirits.
When the bus finally halted at the small station of Ramgarh, the town seemed half-asleep under the storm. From the outside, it looked like any other hill station—quiet lanes, wooden rooftops, the faint smell of pine and wet soil. But for Vihaan Sharma, there was something unnervingly heavy in the air.
Vihaan, 29, a journalist from Delhi, had traveled to dozens of towns and cities before. He had seen chaos, witnessed corruption, and covered heart-wrenching stories of loss. But here, in this mountain town, he sensed something different—a silence that was not peace, but concealment.
He stepped off the bus, adjusting the strap of his bag. The station was nearly deserted, save for a few figures huddled under umbrellas. At one corner, a lone tea vendor stood with his small stall, steam rising from the kettle, fighting the cold drizzle.
As Vihaan approached, the man looked up, eyes sharp yet tired.
"First time here, sir?" the vendor asked, handing him a glass of steaming chai.
"Yes," Vihaan replied with a faint smile. "I've read a lot about Ramgarh. Thought it's time for some ground reporting."
The vendor's expression didn't change. He stirred the tea slowly and then leaned forward. His voice dropped into a whisper that barely rose above the patter of rain.
"There's plenty to write about here… but don't try to write everything."
The words struck Vihaan like a sudden chill. His smile faded, but before he could ask further, another customer walked up and the vendor turned away, busying himself with tea leaves and sugar.
Vihaan took a slow sip, the warmth running down his throat, but the warning lingered.
---
The First Clue at the Hotel
By the time he reached the hotel, the rain had slowed, though the wind still howled through the narrow lanes. The building looked old—wooden balconies, carved railings, and walls that bore the weight of decades. The yellow bulbs in the lobby flickered faintly, casting long shadows across the wooden floor.
The receptionist, a young woman with tired eyes, greeted him with a formal smile. She scanned his ID card, her hands steady, but the moment she read the word journalist, her face stiffened.
"You… you're a journalist?" she asked, almost hesitantly.
"Yes," Vihaan replied casually, placing his bag on the counter. "I'm here to write a feature about Ramgarh—its tourism potential."
The girl exhaled sharply, as if relieved. "Tourism. That's good."
Before Vihaan could respond, a low voice echoed from the corner of the lobby.
"Tourism… huh. Girls go missing here too. Is that part of tourism as well?"
An old man sat slouched in an armchair, his wrinkled hands gripping a walking stick. His eyes, clouded with age yet piercing with bitterness, stared straight at Vihaan.
The entire lobby fell silent. Even the receptionist froze, her smile fading. Quickly, she rushed toward the man.
"Baba, please, not again," she whispered urgently, trying to hush him.
But Vihaan had already heard enough. His reporter's instincts sharpened. He looked around and noticed the other guests deliberately avoiding his gaze, their eyes glued to the floor or the newspapers in their hands. It was as if everyone wanted to erase the old man's words from existence.
"Girls… missing?" Vihaan repeated softly, but no one answered. The receptionist forced a nervous smile back onto her face and handed him the room keys.
"Enjoy your stay, sir."
But Vihaan knew enjoyment was the last thing this place promised.
---
The Missing Girl
Later that night, Vihaan settled into the hotel's dining hall. The place was dimly lit, filled with the aroma of hot curry and the faint hum of a radio playing old Hindi songs. Only a handful of guests sat scattered across the tables.
A waiter, a thin man with anxious eyes, approached with a tray. As he placed the dishes on Vihaan's table, he leaned closer and whispered.
"Sir, since you're a journalist… please write about how the police did nothing in Nayra's case."
Vihaan froze, fork in hand. "Nayra? Who's that?"
The waiter glanced over his shoulder nervously, as if afraid someone might be listening. His voice trembled.
"The local girl… she went missing on a rainy night, just like this one. The police claimed she ran away. But everyone here knows that's a lie."
The name—Nayra—hung in the air like a ghost. Vihaan leaned forward, trying to coax more details.
"What really happened? Do you know anything?"
The waiter opened his mouth but then stopped abruptly. His eyes darted toward the kitchen, where the manager stood glaring. His throat bobbed nervously, and within seconds, the courage drained from his face.
"I… I have work to do, sir." His words came out rushed, almost strangled. Without waiting for another question, he picked up his tray and disappeared into the kitchen.
Vihaan stared at his half-served plate, appetite gone. Around him, the room seemed heavier, darker. The name Nayra echoed in his mind, merging with the tea vendor's warning and the old man's muttering.
---
A Journalist's Doubt
Back in his room, the storm had returned, wind rattling the windows. Vihaan sat by the desk, notebook open, pen tapping restlessly against the paper.
Fragments of conversation replayed in his head:
"Don't try to write everything."
"Girls go missing here too."
"Please write about Nayra."
"This can't just be a simple missing case," he muttered under his breath. "There's something here… something everyone knows, yet chooses to hide."
He looked out through the rain-streaked glass. The town below was dark, only a few lamps glowing faintly. The silence of Ramgarh was no longer peaceful—it was suffocating, like a curtain pulled over a festering wound.
He thought of his assignment. The article he was supposed to write was about tourism—mountain trails, local markets, cultural festivals. A polished piece for glossy magazines. But what he had stumbled upon was far from glossy.
It was raw. Dangerous. Real.
And as a journalist, he knew he couldn't walk away.
The Unseen Presence
Just as he closed his notebook, a faint sound echoed from the corridor outside. A soft shuffle, like footsteps dragging across the wooden floor. Vihaan frowned, standing up. He opened the door, peering into the dim hallway.
Empty.
Only the flickering bulb at the end buzzed weakly.
But then, his eyes caught something. On the wall, near the staircase, hung a series of old photographs—black-and-white frames of Ramgarh's festivals, schools, and town gatherings. In one of the photos, a group of young girls stood smiling in their uniforms.
One face stood out.
Her smile was warm, her eyes bright—yet there was something haunting about it, as though her gaze followed him. Beneath the frame, a name was scribbled in faded ink: Nayra Verma, Class of 2020.
Vihaan's heartbeat quickened.
So she was real. Not just a rumor.
Outside, thunder cracked, shaking the windows. Vihaan closed the door slowly, his resolve hardening.
"This town is hiding something," he whispered. "And I'll find it… even if the whole town stands against me."
The storm raged louder, as if echoing his vow. And in that very moment, the story of tourism turned into something far darker.
The story of Nayra.