PROLOGUE
— The Photo That Shouldn’t Exist —
Bandra, Mumbai — Fifteen Years Ago
The storm outside was loud, but not loud enough to drown out Anisha Kalantri’s fear. Rain hammered the windows of the cramped one-bedroom apartment, and the electricity blinked every few minutes like it wasn’t sure it wanted to stay.
Anisha moved quickly, stuffing documents, photographs, and a small velvet box into an old suitcase whose zipper had long given up on behaving. Her hands trembled—not from the storm, but from the footsteps she kept hearing in the corridor.
Every time shoes scraped against the floor outside, she froze.
Her gaze darted to the bed where eight-year-old Aanya slept curled up, breathing softly, clutching a tiny pillow she’d had since she was three. Aanya’s face was peaceful, untouched by the shadows lurking around their family.
“Maa?” Aanya whispered, stirring.
Anisha sat beside her, brushing her hair gently.
“Go back to sleep, sweetheart.”
“Are we moving again?”
The way she asked it—quiet, resigned—cut Anisha deeper than any threat.
“Yes,” she said, steadying her voice. “Some places are not safe for us anymore.”
Aanya nodded sleepily, accepting the truth as children often do.
Anisha closed the suitcase, then hesitated. Her gaze fell on the photograph lying on the bed—a picture she kept hidden for years. A baby with big, curious eyes. And holding her was Dharen Aradhani. Powerful. Untouchable. Dangerous to their existence.
She reached for the photo.
A sharp knock echoed through the apartment. Three quick taps.
Anisha froze.
The knock came again, harder this time.
She grabbed the suitcase in one hand and Aanya in the other, guiding her toward the back door. Aanya clung to her, confused and frightened.
The knocking turned into pounding.
“Aanya,” Anisha whispered urgently, “you must never look for that family. Ever. They are not your home.”
The child nodded, though she didn’t fully understand.
Anisha opened the back door just as the front door burst inward.
They disappeared into the rain.
A shadow stepped into the apartment.
Footsteps—slow, deliberate—led to the rickety bed.
The photograph Anisha forgot in her panic lay there, glistening under the flickering tube light.
A gloved hand picked it up.
The past had found its first clue.
And it would wait patiently… for the day the truth returned.
