The next morning, Chandipur woke to gossip.
Someone had seen a girl enter Aarav's tea stall in the rain.
Someone else claimed it was Meera.
By noon, half the town had gathered near the stall pretending to buy tea while staring shamelessly.
Aarav ignored them.
Meera remained hidden in the small storage room behind the kitchen, the same room where old tea tins, sacks of sugar, and broken chairs were kept.
He brought her food, dry clothes, and medicine.
But she barely ate.
Instead, she kept asking strange questions.
"Does the 12:15 train still pass?"
"Yes," Aarav said. "Every night."
"Does the station master still ring the bell three times?"
Aarav paused. "Why do you remember that?"
She lowered her eyes. "Because some sounds never leave."
That evening, Aarav finally lost patience.
"No more secrets, Meera. You disappear for three years and come back like a ghost? Tell me the truth."
She looked at him for a long time.
Then she said, "My father sold me."
Aarav froze.
She continued in a hollow voice. "He had debts. Huge ones. A man from the city promised money... if I married his son."
Aarav clenched his fists.
"I tried to refuse. I begged. But they locked me away in a house outside Kolkata. I wasn't allowed outside. No phone. No letters. Nothing."
"Why didn't you escape sooner?"
"I tried," she whispered. "Twice."
"What happened?"
Her fingers shook so badly the cup rattled.
"The second time... they hurt someone because of me."
Aarav's face darkened. "Who?"
She looked at him, and her lips trembled.
"You."
Aarav's heartbeat stumbled.
"What?"
"That night... the night I disappeared... you came after me. You remember the men near the bridge?"
Aarav remembered only flashes—rain, shouting, pain, blood, then darkness.
"They told me if I ever tried to contact you again," Meera said, "they would kill you."
Silence filled the room.
Outside, the 12:15 train horn screamed through the night.
Meera flinched violently and dropped the cup.
It shattered.
Aarav rushed to hold her.
"It's okay. You're safe now."
But Meera grabbed his wrist.
"No," she whispered. "I'm not."
Then she pointed to the tiny window in the storage room.
A folded note had been pushed through the crack.
Aarav unfolded it.
YOU SHOULD HAVE LEFT HER DEAD.