Chapter One: The Letter
503 Words
The rains had returned to Delhi that evening, the kind that smeared windows and soaked everything with a dull gray silence. Advait Sen stood barefoot in his apartment kitchen, a half-finished glass of rum on the counter, the ceiling fan above making a slow, tired rotation like it was dragging the air through an old memory.
He had stopped writing two years ago. Some people thought it was grief. Others whispered burnout. Advait didn’t bother correcting any of them. He simply vanished from the newsroom, locked up his awards in a cardboard box, and left the stories behind like unfinished cigarettes.
Then the letter came.
He didn’t hear the knock. Just found the envelope slipped under his door—a white one, clean, unmarked, like it had dropped from nowhere. The paper inside was rough. Ink smudged slightly at the edge, like whoever had written it was trembling or rushing. Just one line:
“She never left. The truth is in Room 205.”
No name. No return address. Just that sentence. And yet, it was enough to wake something inside him. Something heavy. Ancient. Dangerous.
Room 205.
Cloudview Retreat.
Guldarh.
He dropped the letter, heart suddenly thudding like old drums in his chest.
That was Ira’s room.
He hadn't said her name out loud in months. Maybe years. Ira Malhotra. Brave. Sharp-tongued. Stubborn as hell. They had worked together on the mining scam in Uttarakhand. They had risked their necks to expose a local MLA who turned out to be backed by an entire corporate mafia. For a while, they were invincible—co-authored bylines, secret recordings, late-night drives and samosas at dhabas where no one knew them.
Then she disappeared.
No struggle. No screams. Just gone. Last seen checking into Room 205 at a hillside hotel in Guldarh. One witness claimed to have seen her on the terrace after midnight. Another said she never left the room. But when police entered in the morning, the room was empty. Her bag was untouched. Phone still charging. Laptop shut. Like she had just stepped out for air and never returned.
Advait had spent six months trying to trace her. Six months losing sleep, chasing cold leads, bribing constables, breaking down in front of old photos. And then one day, the investigation was “closed due to lack of evidence.”
He had never gone back to Guldarh.
Until now.
He picked up the letter again. Looked at it under the yellow kitchen light. The words seemed to vibrate. She never left. A chill crept up his arms.
He should’ve called someone. A cop. A friend. But instead, he reached for his travel bag, the one gathering dust on top of the cupboard. He didn’t even realize he was packing until his passport and notepad were already inside.
By midnight, Advait was in a taxi to the railway station.
He didn’t know what he was going to find in Guldarh.
But something in his bones told him—the truth had waited long enough.
- Writer
