He’s visibly shaken by the news of my father's death, but after a moment, he composes himself and asks softly, "How?"

I hesitate, my throat tightening. "He committed suicide," I finally manage, my voice barely a whisper.

His eyes widen in disbelief, searching my face for any hint of doubt. "What? No, that can't be true. Are you sure?" His tone is gentle, but there’s an urgency behind his words, almost as if he's pleading for a different answer.

As I look into his eyes, a memory flickers— the voice of a well-wisher echoing in my mind: "Did you really think your father committed suicide?"

I take a deep breath, trying to push the lingering doubts away.

"That's what the police said," I tell him, my voice barely steady, though the certainty in my own words feels fragile now.

"Do you believe what the police said?" he asked, his voice uncertain.

I don’t know," I replied, searching for the right words. "But do you have any proof to claim he didn’t commit suicide.

He hesitated, glancing away before speaking. "I don’t have any hard evidence, but I know... I just know. When we spoke, he sighed like he had a lot more to say, but couldn’t. That’s why I asked him, 'Can we talk about this at home?' He didn’t say anything, just nodded and I gestured for him to follow me

As we approached, I could see Rehaan and Aalim waiting for me. Rehaan's eyes darted between me and the stranger I was walking with, clearly puzzled.

Rehaan, can you drop us home?" I asked, trying to keep the situation as casual as possible."Of course. Get in," Rehaan said, though his curiosity was palpable.

I glanced at Aalim, not wanting to drag him into this complicated situation any further. "Can we drop Aalim at his place first?" I suggested.

Rehaan nodded, and as we pulled up in front of Aalim’s house, Aalim turned to me. "Don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything," he offered kindly."Thank you, Aalim," I replied, watching as he walked into his home.

Once he disappeared inside, Rehaan restarted the jeep and we continued towards my house. The ride was quiet, a heavy air of anticipation hanging between us.

I stepped down from the jeep, and the stranger followed suit, trailing behind me as I made my way toward the house. Just before I reached the door, I glanced back and noticed Rehaan still sitting in the driver’s seat, unmoving. His hesitation surprised me, so I turned around and walked back to the jeep, tapping gently on the window.

Startled, Rehaan looked up and quickly rolled it down. "What’s wrong?" he asked, his voice betraying a hint of uncertainty.

"Aren’t you coming inside?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. I could sense his reluctance but didn’t understand the reason behind it.

He hesitated, glancing towards the house. "I’m not sure I should..."

I sighed softly, trying to encourage him. "Come on, Rehaan. You’ve been with me through all of this. Just come in," I insisted, opening the door for him.

Despite my invitation, he still didn’t move. His unease was obvious, but I wasn’t about to let him stay behind. With a small sigh, I reached out, grabbed his arm, and gently pulled him out of the jeep. "You’re not getting out of this," I teased lightly, as I led him toward the house, signaling the stranger to follow us.

The front door was ajar, so we stepped inside. The moment we entered, I saw Manasa pacing nervously back and forth in the living room, while Anusha sat nearby, watching her with an exasperated look. "Manasa, would you stop pacing?" Anusha pleaded, her voice edged with frustration.

"Guys," I called out, interrupting the tense atmosphere. Both Manasa and Anusha turned to face us, their eyes immediately locked on the stranger who had entered behind me.

Manasa's expression shifted, recognition flashing in her eyes. She leaned closer to me and whispered, "Is he the one you met at the temple?"

I nodded, confirming her suspicion. Anusha, looking a bit more curious now, asked, "What’s he doing here?"

I glanced at the stranger, sensing his discomfort but knowing that explanations were overdue. "He’ll explain," I said, giving him the space to speak when he was ready.

Vihaan shifted uncomfortably in his seat, cleared his throat, and introduced himself. "I’m Vihaan, a crime reporter."

We all looked at him with curiosity flickering in our eyes.

“Divya,” Vihaan called me, his voice calm but curious. “Do you remember any of your father’s friends?”

I paused, thinking back, then nodded slowly. “Yes, I remember. He had two close friends, but they passed away a long time ago.”

Vihaan hesitated for a moment, as if weighing his next words. “Well,” he finally said, “I’m the son of one of those friends—Mahadev.”

I raised an eyebrow, a spark of surprise flickering in my mind. “Mahadev Uncle’s son?”

Vihaan smiled faintly, giving a slight nod. “Yes. Recently, I was working on a story about cultural artifact thefts, and I came across someone who used to work with your father. His name is Mahesh. He’s been consulting on that case.”

I felt a flicker of intrigue but stayed silent.

He continued, his voice steady. "I went to his office to interview him about the artifact thefts. When I arrived, I knocked on the door and stepped inside. Before we could really start talking, Mahesh's phone rang."

"Sorry," Mahesh said, raising a hand apologetically. "I have to take this—it’s important." He gestured toward the chair. "Please, take a seat, Mr. Vihaan."

Vihaan nodded, took his seat, and, while waiting, allowed his gaze to wander around the room. The walls were adorned with framed photographs, certificates, and—most striking of all—an impressive array of antiques, each displayed with meticulous care. My eyes were drawn to a nearby shelf that held what appeared to be historical artifacts: small sculptures, ancient pottery, coins, and relics from a time long past.

One particular piece caught my attention—a beautifully crafted, intricately detailed statue. I stood up and walked over to the shelf for a closer look. The craftsmanship was astonishing; it was clear that this statue held significant historical value, perhaps even a story of its own.

“Aren’t they beautiful?” a voice said from behind me.

I turned to see Mahesh, now off the phone, standing nearby. His eyes sparkled with admiration as he gazed at the artifacts.

“They truly are,” Vihaan agreed, stepping back respectfully from the shelf to allow Mahesh to approach.

Mahesh extended his hand toward Vihaan. “I apologize for the delay, Mr. Vihaan. Thank you for your patience.”

Vihaan shook his hand firmly, a friendly smile on his face. “No problem at all, sir. Please, call me Vihaan.”

Mahesh smiled in return, his expression softening as he gestured for them to sit down. “So, how can I assist you today, Vihaan? I understand you have some questions regarding the artifact thefts?”

Vihaan nodded, his curiosity piqued. “Yes, I was hoping to get your insights into the recent cases. I believe your expertise could shed some light on the methods used by the thieves.”

Mahesh leaned back in his chair, his demeanor becoming more serious. “Of course, I’d be happy to help. What do you want to know specifically?"

Vihaan quickly pulled out his journal and started recording on his phone. "This is actually my first major story involving artifacts," he admitted, a hint of nostalgia creeping into his voice. "My father was an archaeologist, and growing up, I was always surrounded by relics and pieces of history. It feels surreal to be reporting on them now."

Mahesh's expression softened at the mention of Vihaan’s father. "Your father was an archaeologist? What was his name?"

Vihaan hesitated for a moment before responding, the weight of his father's legacy pressing on him. "Mahadev. Mahadev Chowdary."

A flicker of recognition crossed Mahesh’s face, but it was quickly overshadowed by a storm of emotions. His demeanor changed; his face hardened, and he clenched his jaw. "I’m sorry, Vihaan," he said coldly, his voice tight with tension. "You need to leave. I just remembered I have an urgent meeting."

Vihaan, taken aback, tried to salvage the interview. "Sir, it won’t take long, please—"

"I said leave, Vihaan," Mahesh snapped, his voice rising.

Confused and concerned, Vihaan pressed on. "Sir, what’s going on?"

Mahesh’s eyes blazed with anger, a fury that seemed to boil beneath the surface. "Because I don’t want to see your face or speak with you anymore!" he shouted.

Vihaan was stunned. "Sir, what did I do?" he asked, bewildered and desperate for clarity.

"You didn’t do anything," Mahesh spat, his voice thick with contempt. "But your father did."

Vihaan frowned in confusion, the implications swirling in his mind. "What are you talking about? What did my father do?"

Mahesh's face twisted with a mix of rage and deep-seated pain. "You want to know?" he said bitterly, his voice low and dangerous. "Fine. Your father destroyed two families. He killed my best friend."

Vihaan froze, his breath catching in his throat. "Killed? What do you mean, sir?" He searched Mahesh’s face for answers, but the older man had already turned his back, his shoulders shaking with barely controlled fury.

"Just leave, Vihaan," Mahesh said quietly, his voice now thick with emotion. "Before I say something I’ll regret."

Vihaan stood there, the weight of Mahesh's words crashing down on him. Confusion, anger, and sadness swirled within him. He could feel the unresolved tension in the room, and the weight of his father’s past pressing down on him like a heavy fog. "Sir, I didn't know... I had no idea."

Mahesh turned slightly, his face still averted, as if unable to face the pain. "You’re right. You didn’t know. But knowing doesn’t change what happened," he said, his voice trembling with suppressed grief. "You need to understand the consequences of his actions. They haunt me every day."

Vihaan took a step back, his heart racing. I'm sorry, I just wanted to honor his legacy," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Mahesh's expression softened for a fleeting moment before hardening again. "Sometimes, legacies come with a price," he replied, his tone chilling. "And it's a price you may not be ready to pay."

Vihaan couldn’t digest the fact that his father might have killed someone. The thought gnawed at him as he returned home, desperately trying to focus on his work. But Mahesh’s ominous words echoed in his mind, casting a shadow over everything. Frustrated and restless, he decided to go for a run, hoping the physical exertion would clear his head.

After several laps around the block, he returned home, his heart racing from the exercise and anxiety. He hesitated for a moment outside his father’s room, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on him. Finally, steeling himself, he opened the door.

His gaze fell on the study table cluttered with papers and books. As he approached, something compelled him to open the drawer. To his surprise, he found a journal tucked away in the corner. With a quick prayer that Mahesh’s accusations weren’t true, he flipped it open.

At first, the pages were filled with mundane work-related notes—meetings, project deadlines, and task lists. Nothing that suggested wrongdoing. Just as he was about to close it, however, a sudden gust of wind swept through the room, causing the pages to flutter. He froze when he caught sight of the last entry, which seemed to leap off the page: “It’s all my fault. Because of me, they died.”

The journal slipped from Vihaan’s trembling hands and landed softly on the carpet. He sank into the chair beside the table, overwhelmed by a mix of fear and disbelief. He picked the journal back up, his fingers trembling as he turned the pages again, desperately hoping for more context. But that chilling entry was the last one.

Confusion swirled in his mind as he processed the implications of those words. Who had died? What role had his father played? The questions loomed large, and with each unanswered query, the burden of doubt weighed heavier on his heart.

In that moment, Vihaan knew he was at a crossroads. He could either bury this haunting discovery and live in ignorance or confront the truth, no matter how painful it might be. The weight of the journal in his hands felt like the weight of the world, pressing down on him, demanding answers.