The storm had passed by dawn, leaving the town of Ramgarh drenched and glistening. Mist curled around the pine trees like pale fingers, and the narrow streets smelled of wet earth. The silence was unnerving, as if the town itself was holding its breath.
Vihaan hardly slept that night. The photograph of Nayra Verma, with her bright smile trapped forever in a faded frame, haunted him. Every time he closed his eyes, her gaze followed him into the dark.
By morning, his decision was clear: tourism could wait. Nayra's story was the real headline.
---
The Marketplace Whispers
After breakfast, Vihaan headed to the town's marketplace. Ramgarh's bazaar was a narrow stretch lined with small wooden shops—vegetables, woolen clothes, handmade trinkets. Women bargained in low voices, men smoked silently at corners.
Vihaan approached a fruit seller, striking casual conversation.
"Nice town you've got here. Peaceful. Must be good for tourists."
The man gave a noncommittal nod. His eyes flicked briefly at Vihaan's camera slung across his shoulder.
"You're not from here," he said flatly.
"No. I'm a journalist from Delhi. Writing about Ramgarh."
The fruit seller's hands froze mid-motion. His face stiffened, but before Vihaan could continue, an elderly woman tugged at the man's arm. She whispered something sharp in his ear. He immediately turned away, pretending to arrange apples.
Vihaan frowned. The pattern repeated. Every time the word journalist slipped from his lips, people recoiled like he carried a disease.
But just as he was about to leave, a faint voice called from behind.
"Sir… wait."
A teenage boy, thin and scruffy, stood near a stack of woolen shawls. His eyes darted nervously around before he approached.
"You were asking about Nayra, right?"
Vihaan stiffened. "Yes. Do you know her?"
The boy bit his lip. "Everyone did. She used to help her father in the bookshop near the post office. But after she disappeared… no one wants to talk."
"Why not?" Vihaan pressed.
The boy's voice dropped. "Because they say the ones who talk… also disappear."
Before Vihaan could question further, a man shouted the boy's name. He flinched, muttered "I shouldn't be here," and ran off into the crowd.
Vihaan stood rooted, the words echoing in his head:
The ones who talk… also disappear.
--
The Bookshop
Following the clue, Vihaan made his way to the old bookshop near the post office. It was a small wooden structure, its signboard faded, the glass windows fogged with dust.
Inside, the smell of old paper hung heavy. Stacks of books leaned against each other like weary soldiers. Behind the counter sat a frail man in spectacles, his eyes dull with exhaustion.
"Good morning," Vihaan greeted politely.
The man looked up. "Looking for something?"
"Yes. I heard Nayra used to work here. I'm a journalist—"
The word journalist hadn't even left his mouth fully before the man's face hardened. He slammed a book shut and glared.
"Leave."
Vihaan blinked. "Excuse me?"
"I said leave! No journalist brings anything but trouble. My daughter is gone. And words on paper won't bring her back."
The word daughter pierced like a blade. This was Nayra's father.
"I'm sorry," Vihaan said softly. "But don't you want people to know the truth? Don't you want the world to hear her story?"
The old man's hands trembled on the counter. For a brief moment, his eyes glistened. But then he shook his head violently, pushing the memory away.
"Truth?" he spat bitterly. "Truth doesn't survive in this town. It gets buried. Like everything else."
He turned away, refusing to speak further.
Vihaan knew pressing harder would shut the door completely. With a heavy heart, he stepped out. But just as he did, something caught his eye.
By the window, half-hidden under a stack of books, lay a torn notebook. The corner bore Nayra's name.
Before he could think twice, he slipped a glance at the old man—still facing the counter—and quietly slid the notebook into his bag.
---
The Notebook
Back at the hotel, Vihaan opened the notebook with trembling fingers. The pages were filled with Nayra's handwriting—small, neat, but restless. Poems about rain, sketches of the town, little notes about her dreams. She wanted to study in Delhi, to write, to see the world beyond Ramgarh.
But toward the last few pages, her tone changed. The cheerful words turned sharp, almost desperate.
"There's something wrong in Ramgarh. People go missing, and nobody speaks. It's like a shadow over this town, swallowing one life after another. Sometimes I feel like someone's following me too. Last night, footsteps outside my window. Papa says it's just the wind. But I know what I heard."
Vihaan's pulse quickened. He turned another page.
"If anything happens to me, it won't be because I ran away. Remember that."
The final page was half-torn, the ink smudged with water. Only a fragment remained:
"…the old mansion by the cliffs… they say nobody goes there after dark…"
Thunder cracked outside as if the heavens themselves emphasized the words.
The old mansion by the cliffs.
---
The Police Encounter
Determined, Vihaan decided to gather official information. He walked to the local police station—a dull grey building with peeling paint and an air of neglect.
Inside, a portly officer sat behind the desk, chewing paan lazily. He looked up at Vihaan with irritation.
"Yes? What do you want?"
"I'm a journalist from Delhi," Vihaan introduced himself. "I'm here to ask about a missing person case—Nayra Verma."
At once, the officer's expression darkened. He leaned back, eyes narrowing.
"That case is closed. She ran away. End of story."
"But her friends, her father, they don't believe that," Vihaan argued. "Her notebook suggests—"
"Notebook?" The officer cut him off sharply. "Where did you get that?"
Vihaan froze, realizing his mistake. "I… someone mentioned it."
The officer slammed his fist on the desk. "Listen, outsider. You're here to write about tourism, not to dig up old graves. Do your job and leave. Poke your nose where it doesn't belong, and you might not leave at all."
The threat was clear.
Vihaan walked out with his heart pounding, but his resolve unshaken. If anything, the hostility confirmed his suspicion: the police weren't just incompetent. They were hiding something.
---
The Mansion by the Cliffs
That evening, curiosity pulled Vihaan toward the cliffs. The path wound through thick pines, the air damp and heavy with mist. Birds had long gone silent.
At the edge of the cliff stood the mansion—massive, crumbling, its windows like hollow eyes staring into the abyss. Local legends whispered it was cursed. Doors that creaked open on their own. Lights that flickered inside though no one lived there.
Vihaan's instincts screamed caution, but his journalist's hunger pushed him forward. He stepped inside.
The air was colder here, thick with the stench of mold. The wooden floor groaned beneath his shoes. Dust clung to every corner, cobwebs dangling like curtains.
As he explored, he noticed symbols carved into the walls—strange markings, half-erased, as if someone tried to hide them.
In one room, broken furniture lay scattered. But what made his blood run cold was a shoe, half-buried under rubble. A woman's shoe. Small, delicate.
He crouched, brushing the dust away. It looked recent, not decades old.
And then—
A sound.
Footsteps.
Slow. Deliberate. From the hallway behind him.
Vihaan's heart hammered. He spun around, but the corridor was empty. Shadows stretched long, mocking his fear.
He forced himself to breathe. "Calm down. It's just the wind."
But deep down, he knew it wasn't.
As he turned to leave, his eyes caught something scratched onto the wall near the doorway. Letters carved in haste, almost desperate.
"HELP ME."
--
The Vow
By the time Vihaan stumbled back to the hotel, night had fallen. His clothes were damp, his face pale. He locked the door, pulled out his notebook, and began to write furiously.
The town fears Nayra's name.
The police are complicit.
The mansion holds secrets.
Someone—or something—is watching.
His pen shook as he wrote the final line:
"I will not leave Ramgarh until I find the truth about Nayra."
Outside, the wind howled against the mountains. Somewhere in the darkness, unseen eyes watched the lone journalist who dared to dig where no one else would.
And far away, at the cliffs, a light flickered briefly inside the abandoned mansion—before vanishing into the night.