chapter two
1074 Words
She slipped the object into the pocket of her jacket and left the house without telling anyone where she was going.
She didn't have a plan.
At least, not a proper one.
All she knew was that she needed to understand the strange writing on it. The letters were unfamiliar. curved and connected in a way she had never seen before. She had stared at them for almost an hour, hoping that somehow the meaning would reveal itself.
It didn't.
So she thought of the one person who might help.
There was a small shop at the far end of the street where an elderly man sold old books, newspapers, and things people rarely bothered looking at anymore. Her grandmother used to visit him sometimes. She never understood why. Whenever the girl asked, Grandma would simply smile and say, “Some things are easier to find when you know where to look.”
She had never thought much about those words.
Until today.
The walk there felt strangely different. Every few steps, she reached into her pocket to make sure the object was still there. It was.
When she finally reached the shop, she stopped outside.
The door was open.
But the shop was completely silent.
She pushed the door gently.
A small bell rang above her head.
“Hello?”
No answer.
She stepped inside.
Rows of dusty books surrounded her, stacked so high that some nearly touched the ceiling. She looked around, suddenly wondering if coming here had been a mistake.
Then she noticed something.
On the wall behind the counter was a faded symbol.
Her heart stopped.
It was the same symbol engraved on the object.
She slowly pulled the object from her pocket.
For several seconds, she simply stared between the two.
She hadn't told anyone about it.
Her grandmother was the only person who had known she had it.
And yet somehow, this symbol had been waiting for her here.
She took one cautious step toward the counter.
Then she heard a voice behind her.
“You shouldn't have brought that here.”
She froze.
The object slipped slightly from her fingers.
She turned around.
An old man stood in the doorway at the back of the shop, staring directly at the object in her hand.
And from the look on his face, she realized something that frightened her more than the strange writing itself.
He knew exactly what it was.
“You shouldn't have brought that here.”
She tightened her fingers around the object.
“What is it?”
The old man didn't answer.
He walked slowly toward the counter, his eyes fixed on what she was holding. There was something unsettling about the way he looked at it—not fear exactly, but recognition.
“You know what this is,” she said.
“I know what it isn't.”
She frowned. “What does that even mean?”
“It means you shouldn't be asking me what it is.”
“Then who am I supposed to ask?”
The old man glanced toward the door, as though checking whether someone had followed her.
“Who sent you?”
“No one sent me.”
His eyes returned to hers.
“My grandmother died yesterday.”
Something changed in his expression.
Only for a second.
But she noticed.
“You knew her?”
“I knew of her.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
He sighed and reached beneath the counter. For a moment, she thought he was going to take the object from her, but instead he pulled out an old book and placed it on the counter.
“You're asking the wrong question.”
She stared at him.
“What question should I be asking?”
He tapped the book gently.
“Why did she leave it for you?”
Her stomach tightened.
“I don't know. That's why I'm here.”
“No,” he said quietly. “You came here because you want an answer. Those are not the same thing.”
She didn't understand.
“Can you at least tell me what the writing says?”
He looked at the object again.
“It isn't English.”
“I know that.”
“And it isn't something you should try translating by yourself.”
“Why?”
He hesitated.
“Because sometimes knowing what something says is less dangerous than knowing what it means.”
She stared at him.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you need someone who understands the language—and understands the history behind it.”
“Who?”
The old man was silent for a moment.
Then he reached for a small piece of paper and wrote down an address.
He folded it before handing it to her.
“Go there.”
She took it but didn't open it.
“Who am I going to meet?”
“Someone who may be willing to help you.”
“May?”
The old man gave her a tired smile.
“You're asking too many questions.”
“My grandmother is dead. I found something hidden in her house that has writing I can't understand, and now you're telling me to go somewhere without even explaining why.”
“I know.”
“And you're not going to tell me what this is?”
“No.”
She stared at him in disbelief.
“You're really not?”
“No.”
“Then at least tell me one thing.”
He waited.
She held up the object.
“Should I be afraid of it?”
The old man's face became serious.
“No.”
She breathed out slowly.
Then he added,
“You should be afraid of the people who might recognize it.”
Her expression changed.
Before she could ask another question, he turned away.
“Wait!”
He stopped.
She looked down at the folded paper in her hand.
“How did my grandmother know about this place?”
The old man didn't turn around.
For a long moment, there was only silence.
Then he said quietly,
“She didn't find this place.”
He paused.
“She was brought here.”
She looked up.
But the old man was already walking away.
She unfolded the paper.
There was an address written on it.
And beneath the address were three words that made her blood run cold.
Ask about Meera.
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