The Eyes of the Nilchakra
The storm came without warning.
One moment, Banaras was wrapped in its familiar evening chaos — chai stalls hissing by the roadside, temple bells echoing faintly through the damp air, the Ganga whispering beneath the boats. The next, the sky tore open, spilling sheets of rain so dense they erased the city's edges. Lightning flashed like fractured glass, cutting veins of white across the black heavens.
Inside the narrow, stone-walled building of the Banaras City Museum, Mira Sharma sat hunched over her desk. The wooden shutters rattled in protest, but she ignored them. Her pen whispered across yellowed paper as she finished cataloguing a centuries-old palm-leaf manuscript. A loose strand of hair slipped across her face; she brushed it aside, only for it to fall again.
It was nearly closing time — though time itself seemed uncertain tonight.
The museum was empty, as usual. Her colleagues had fled before the rain, leaving Mira, as always, the last custodian — the quiet watcher of forgotten things. She didn't mind. Silence suited her.
Until it changed.
The lights flickered, then died. The fan above her shuddered to a stop. The hum of the old wiring faded into the storm's relentless drumming. In the darkness, Mira noticed something strange — all seven clocks on the museum walls had stopped.
Every single one read the same time.
7:07 p.m.
Her pulse quickened. That couldn't be right.
She reached for her phone — and then came a knock.
A sharp, deliberate knock, echoing through the storm.
Nobody ever came to the museum this late, least of all in such weather. The second knock was louder. Urgent.
She crossed the hall, heart pounding, and opened the door.
A postman stood there, drenched from head to toe. His khaki uniform clung to his thin frame, his cap plastered to his skull. Water streamed off him, pooling at his feet. Without a word, he held out a small parcel wrapped in oil paper and tied with red thread.
"For you," he rasped. "Sign."
"At this hour?" Mira frowned. "In this storm?"
He didn't answer. His eyes — pale, unfocused — stared straight through her, as though she weren't there at all. Uneasy, she scribbled her signature, handed the pen back —
—and froze.
The man was gone.
The street outside lay empty. No retreating footsteps, no silhouette. Only rain hammering stone.
Mira's breath quickened. She shut the door, bolted it, and hurried back to her desk. The candle flame trembled as she unwrapped the parcel, each damp layer peeling away like skin.
Inside lay a disc.
Smooth. Polished. Deep blue — the color of midnight before thunder. Its surface was carved with dozens of tiny eyes, arranged in spirals. When she tilted it toward the light, they seemed to shift, to watch her.
Her throat went dry. Beneath the disc lay a note.
The handwriting struck her like a heartbeat.
Familiar.
Intimate.
Guard the Nilchakra. The Weaver is awake.
Her mother's handwriting.
Mira's hands trembled. No mistake — the looping r, the faint smudge where the pen always pressed too hard. But her mother had vanished twelve years ago, leaving nothing but silence and questions.
Now, in a storm, her ghost had written her a message.
The museum felt smaller, air thick as water. Mira picked up the disc — the Nilchakra — its cool weight pulsing faintly in her palm. The carved eyes seemed to shimmer, almost breathing.
Her phone buzzed, jolting her. An unknown number flashed on the screen.
She answered.
Static hissed. Then a voice — low, male, and edged with menace.
> "Bring the Nilchakra to the stepwell under Kedar Ghat before midnight."
Her heart slammed.
"Who is this? What do you want?"
The voice ignored her.
> "If you value your mother's life, do as I say."
Her stomach dropped.
"M–my mother? Is she alive? Tell me where she is!"
A soft chuckle — silk tearing in the dark — and the line went dead.
The silence that followed was worse than the voice.
Mira stared at the Nilchakra. Its eyes gleamed faintly, mocking. She stood, pushed open the terrace shutters. Rain lashed her face, soaking her hair. Across the swollen Ganga, through the storm, a flame burned on the far bank — unmoving, golden, impossible.
A sign.
A warning.
She clutched the Nilchakra to her chest. Her mother's lullabies, her scent of jasmine, her stories of serpent kings and hidden doors — all came rushing back, colliding with the echo of that single line:
The Weaver is awake.
Lightning split the sky. The city shuddered. Somewhere close, a temple bell tolled — once, twice, thirteen times.
Mira whispered into the storm,
"Who is the Weaver… and why does he have my mother?
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🌀 Who—or what—is the Weaver, and why has he waited twelve years to return?
🔮 Can an ancient artifact watch its guardian back?
🕯️ When the Nilchakra opens its eyes, what else wakes beneath the Ganga?