1

  The chandeliers dripped golden light like molten stars, casting a glow so soft it seemed to tame the shadows. Violins whispered in harmony, their melodies weaving through laughter, clinks of glasses, and the rhythmic shuffle of polished shoes over mahogany floors. Silk gowns twirled beside tailored suits as elite guests danced under ceilings hand-painted with myths long forgotten.

  Trays of delicacies floated through the crowd — smoked salmon in citrus glaze, caviar canapés, and pastries so fine they seemed dreamt into existence. A waiter, no more than twenty, weaved through the revelry with the stillness of a ghost. The camera of the night followed the glass on his silver tray — a crystal tumbler of aged whiskey, glowing amber beneath the chandelier.

  He reached a man in the far corner.

  "Sir, your order," the waiter said, voice low.

  The man barely nodded. He was dressed in a long black cloak that touched the floor, boots dulled by dust of long roads, trousers fitted and firm. A faint gash ran down the left side of his cheek — not deep, but enough to suggest recent danger. He looked mid-thirties, but his eyes… they carried the weight of centuries. Sharp, calculating, hollowed by loss or betrayal — it was unclear which.

  Beside him sat a black German Shepherd, majestic and alert. Its fur gleamed like obsidian, muscles coiled like silent thunder. A custom collar wrapped around its neck, chained to the man’s wrist with a grip like steel. On the collar, a faint engraving: "Never Betray Twice."

  The man looked up at the waiter, his voice low, like gravel soaked in sorrow. "Whose estate is this?"

  The waiter hesitated, blinked, and bowed silently without a reply.

  Outside the glamour and perfume, the world was colder. A gust swept through the silent hills like a forgotten carol. The mansion, perched atop the cliffs, looked like a royal relic — pristine and proud.

  A rusted signboard leaned near the wrought-iron gates: “Doregaon Tea Estate”

  Beneath it, faintly scratched in red: “Strangers and Strange Characters Not Allowed.”

  Even the darkness bowed before the beauty of the hills — moonlight bathing the valleys, and the quiet winds humming secrets that had died a century ago.

  Suddenly — a screech.

  Tyres screamed against gravel, breaking the spell of the night. A black car came to a jarring halt before the estate gates. Five men stepped out. Dressed in matte black, each armed with concealed weaponry — their movements were swift, military and dangerous.

  One of them lit a cigarette, the ember flaring like a devil’s eye. "You sure, this is the place?" he asked, scanning the mansion’s glowing windows.

  Another man, taller, cold-eyed, responded without turning. "Madam said he’d be here. We don’t question her."

  The first one nodded grimly. “There’s a party going on inside.”

  “So let it bleed,” the other murmured. “He knows about the mission. That’s something he should’ve died before knowing.”

  With a signal, they marched toward the mansion.

  Back in the ballroom, the waiter returned to the serving bay, whispering to a colleague as he picked up another tray.

  "Keep an eye on the man in the corner," he said quietly. "Borders aren’t safe anymore. Master wants us cautious. No more chances with strangers."

  The mysterious man in black took another sip of his whiskey, the dog twitching beside him. Then his eyes flicked to the grand doors — and froze.

  The five assassins had entered. They didn’t belong to that place. And they didn’t pretend to either.

  His breath caught. He stood, slowly, eyes darting like wildfire. Gripping the chain to his dog, he vanished into the crowd, cloaking himself in music and movement. He didn’t run. Not yet. But fear — real, raw fear — rippled in his eyes.

  The assassins scanned the crowd like vultures in tuxedos, moving with the silence of death.

  The music continued. So did the dance. But something had changed in the air — A storm was whispering from beneath the silence.

  2

  The sun rose gently over the Doregaon hills, pouring gold over slopes that rolled like sleeping giants. The air was crisp, alive with the scent of dew and distant tea leaves. A silent river whispered its way down the hillside, curving like a silver ribbon behind a solitary cottage that stood quietly apart from the noise of the world.

  The cottage, modest but charming, wore its solitude like a poem. In its courtyard, a group of young children sat cross-legged on soft grass, their voices blending into a gentle symphony. Birds perched on tree branches above, listening — or perhaps learning.

  On an old but sturdy armchair sat their music teacher, a woman in her early thirties. Graceful yet grounded, she wore a soft linen cloth, her long hair tied in a loose braid that rested over her shoulder.

  "No, no, listen again," she said, gently halting a boy with her hand. "Music isn’t in the loudness of sound. It lies in control. In the pauses between the notes. That... that is the silence of the soul — not the voice of chaos.”

  The children nodded, a little unsure, but visibly moved. They repeated the phrase softly among themselves — as if trying to understand it not with their minds, but their hearts.

  As the lesson ended, one of the girls looked up, hopeful. “Will we meet next Wednesday, Ma’am?”

  The woman smiled warmly, brushing a loose strand from the girl’s face. “Not next Wednesday, little star. I’ll be out of station for a few days. But after that… I promise I’ll bring you a new song.”

  The children thanked her with a respectful chorus, and ran off laughing, their satchels bouncing behind them like childhood itself.

  Left alone, the woman stepped inside her cottage. The wooden nameplate on the doorway, carved delicately, read: “Noor,” a name as beautiful as her voice.

  Inside, the home echoed her soul — warm, quiet, touched by music. The walls were lined with books, shelves of records, and the faint fragrance of sandalwood. She moved to the kitchen, humming a tune under her breath, and brewed herself a pot of coffee. Two slices of sandwich sizzled on the pan.

  Moments later, coffee in one hand and breakfast in another, she stepped into the drawing room. The morning light pooled on the wooden floor like liquid amber. Her eyes landed on the wall — a gallery of frozen time.

  One photograph showed her at six, held tight between her parents, all three laughing wildly at something unseen. Another showed her, perhaps fifteen, with her school friends, mid-performance on stage — a violin clutched in her hands, pride in her eyes. Each frame whispered something she had buried carefully in her silence.

  A tear welled in her left eye. Not sorrow. Not exactly. Just... memories of good old days. It slid slowly down her cheek, then fell, unnoticed, into the curve of her smiling lips.

  She finished her coffee. The sandwich was half-eaten, but she was full enough — of nostalgia, of the quiet peace only music could give.

  Noor walked into the kitchen, dishes in hand, humming the melody the children had rehearsed earlier. But just as she stepped to the sink —

  Her humming stopped. Her eyes narrowed.

  On the floor near the pantry were three tiny drops of blood. Beside them — fine, black fur, might be, of a dog.

  She froze. The cup in her hand trembled just slightly. Her breath hitched.

  She stepped back, slowly, eyes fixed on the floor. The melody she had taught — the silence of the soul — seemed to vanish. In its place, a strange stillness crept in, chilling, ominous.

  3

  The clock above the desk struck eleven as Doregaon Police Station buzzed with the sleepy rhythm of paperwork, footsteps, and idle chatter. Ceiling fans creaked above, fighting a losing battle against the late-morning heat. Outside, a dog barked lazily but inside, duty hummed — slow but steady.

  Three constables leaned near the canteen window, sipping cutting chai and murmuring in hushed tones.

  “The borders are boiling again,” one said, wiping sweat off his brow.

  “Not just the borders,” another replied. “Kashmir’s become a chessboard. These gangs — they’re everywhere, hiding behind smoke and shadows.”

  “Who funds them?” asked the third, softly. “That’s what I want to know.”

  Inside his cabin, Inspector Vimir Rathore stood by a dusty shelf, browsing through a worn-out file with his sharp, aging eyes. A man of unshakable values, Vimir had served across states — from tribal hinterlands to urban warzones — and carried a quiet authority that didn’t require raised voices. His moustache was thick, well-trimmed, his uniform crisp despite the station’s humid air. Every badge on his chest had a story behind it — and none of them were easy.

  As he heard murmurs outside, he muttered to himself, “Religions were meant to guide... not to divide. But today... they’ve become uniforms in someone else’s war. People follow what they fear, not what they understand.”

  Just then, the heavy wooden doors of the station creaked open.

  Two tall figures in Army uniform entered — serious, composed, every step a command in itself. The constables stood alert.

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  “Identification,” Vimir called from his cabin.

  One of the men approached, saluted, and spoke with calm authority. “General Yusuf Siddiqui, Veeran Regiment. This is Vice Captain, Shekhar Pillai. We come with urgency, sir.”

  Vimir rose, offering a respectful nod. “Welcome. What’s the matter, General?”

  Yusuf’s voice was grim. “One of our officers went off the grid yesterday. No calls. No signals. Not even satellite footprints.”

  Vimir’s brow furrowed. “Where was he last posted?”

  “Here,” Yusuf said. “He was sent under civilian disguise to infiltrate and gather intelligence on the growing gang networks across Doregaon and adjacent hills. To be specific, a dangerous gang that operates under Madam Scorpion. There’s chatter they’re linked to an arms pipeline that starts from Kashmir but aims to destroy the whole country.”

  Vice-Captain, Shekhar added, “Lt. Ahaan Sharma is one of our finest. Sharp, disciplined. Doesn’t miss contact. That’s what alarms us.”

  Vimir stepped closer. “Any descriptions?”

  Yusuf nodded. “Mid-thirties. Wounded slightly on the right side of his face from a previous operation. Always traveled with a companion — a German Shepherd. He said he trusted the dog more than half his team.”

  The Inspector’s eyes subtly changed.

  For a brief second, a flash of the man in the ballroom crossed his mind — black cloak, mysterious eyes, a dog leashed closely. He had been there that night in the tea-estate party. But he didn’t say a word.

  Instead, he spoke with quiet assurance. “General Yusuf… Captain Shekhar… Doregaon may seem quiet, but silence has always been this place’s greatest illusion. We’ve had… strangers lately. Some that disappear before you blink.”

  Yusuf looked at him steadily. “We believe this isn’t just about gangs. There’s something deeper here as well. Something more organised.”

  Vimir nodded. “I’ll assign my sharpest eyes on this. The hill shadows are thick… but someone always leaves footprints, no matter how light.”

  The three men stood in silence for a moment, the weight of their uniforms not just cloth — but burden. Outside, the winds shifted. Clouds began to gather far beyond the hills.

  4

  Evening crept over the hills like a whisper of smoke. The sun had dipped behind the horizon, casting long golden streaks over the silent river that wound its way behind the cottage. A few birds chirped their last songs of the day as the light slowly faded, and the world turned dusky and still.

  Noor stood barefoot in her courtyard, gently spraying her blooming rose plants. The watering can in her hand tilted slowly, her eyes unfocused—drifting. Though the breeze played with her hair, and the earth beneath was soft, something about her seemed distracted… heavy. As if her heart carried a weight her lips dared not utter.

  She paused, sighing to herself. Her eyes drifted across the open landscape.

  She’d been keeping something. Not an object. A memory.

  And memories, when left alone too long, grow dangerous.

  Suddenly—

  The sharp crunch of tyres along the gravel path jolted the moment. The flashing red-blue light of a police van blinked through the shadows, cutting through the calm like a blade.

  The van came to a halt just outside her wooden gate.

  Three men got down. Inspector Vimir walked ahead, flanked by General Yusuf and Vice Captain Shekhar. Each face carried the same look — part suspicion, part curiosity.

  Yusuf smiled gently, attempting ease. “What a lovely house you’ve got here, Miss. Like a hidden poem between ivory pages.”

  Noor wiped her hands with the edge of her cloth, the watering can left tilted beside a money plant. “Thank you,” she said softly. “But I doubt you’ve driven all the way here just to praise my garden. What brings you here to this lovely home?”

  Vimir’s eyes were steady. “We’re here about the case of a missing officer. Lt. Ahaan Sharma. Veeran Regiment.”

  She froze for the tiniest fraction of a second. Then blinked it away.

  Yusuf continued, “He was last seen near Doregaon. Mid-thirty’s. Trained, discreet, always moved with a pet German Shepherd. He was… on a mission.”

  Shekhar stepped forward. “His tracker device pinged last near this region. Close to your cottage.”

  Noor took a breath, calm but firm. “I’m sorry to hear about this officer. But I haven’t seen anyone… or any dog… in days. I live alone here, all by myself, kept busy by my music classes.”

  Vimir tilted his head. “Madam, what were you doing the previous night?”

  “I… celebrated my birthday. Alone. Opened a bottle of wine, cooked myself some pasta. Played some old records. Slept around midnight. Usually I sleep around ten.”

  “And today in the morning?”

  “Had classes with my usual children. Taught them a nice Spanish piece. Music, Inspector, isn’t sound. It’s silence that speaks.”

  She smiled faintly. Vimir’s lips didn’t move. “Seen anything or anyone strange in the last few days?” he asked again.

  “No,” she said. “Nothing more than the usual frogs and squirrels.”

  The men exchanged glances, unsatisfied. Just as they were about to step back, Yusuf’s eyes caught something. A bulge beneath the courtyard carpet.

  He moved quickly, stepping over, and pulled it back. A small kitchen knife gleamed under the twilight. It was stained. Red.

  Vimir raised his eyebrows. “Any explanations to this, Madam?”

  Noor walked up without flinching. “My kitchen knife. For cutting vegetables.”

  Shekhar stepped closer, kneeling to inspect it. “And so, these red stains must be beetroot-juice?”

  “Beetroot?” Noor offered with a smile. “O’ no, no. One of my students spilled red paint by mistake. Messy children.”

  “We can test it.”

  “Be my guest. The paint bucket’s still in the kitchen. And you’re welcome to question the boy who did it.”

  For a moment, silence gripped the air like a closed fist. The officers looked around — as though the very walls held secrets.

  Yusuf gave a final glance. “We appreciate your time, Miss Noor. Seems like you really know nothing about the strange disappearance. But, in case, you get a clue, you report to us.”

  The three men returned to the van, casting glances over their shoulders. The gravel crunched again as the engine roared, taking the vehicle away — twisting through the hills and into the horizon.

  Noor stood still by the gate. Watching. Only when the taillights disappeared did she shut the wooden door behind her.

  Her hands trembled.

  She turned the bolt slowly, then walked into her dimly lit living room. Her face was pale — but unreadable. Not fear. Not guilt. Just… knowing.

  She walked to her wooden cupboard and opened the top shelf. Gently, with fingers that remembered more than they wanted to, she took out a blood-smeared handkerchief. She held it close. Then placed it aside.

  Next, she pulled out an old leather-bound diary, its edges frayed by time.

  Flipping through brittle pages filled with cursive dreams, she paused at one entry — marked by a long-dead, crumbling rose. The ink had faded, but the words hadn’t lost their meaning:

  “Do you believe in soulmates, Noor? They say souls unite when constellations meet in the sky.”

  The diary trembled slightly in her hand. And outside, the stars began to blink—one by one.

  5

  Twenty Years Ago

  The forest was breathing with silence. A winding path stretched through the heart of the hills, veiled in the golden light of an autumn dusk. The wind carried with it the earthy scent of fallen leaves and fading wildflowers.

  Two young souls walked hand in hand — a boy and a girl, not older than twelve. Dust on their feet, dreams in their eyes. And shadows… long shadows behind them.

  The girl broke the silence, her voice soft but old — far older than her years. “They say the country is going through its darkest time.”

  The boy glanced at her, his brows furrowed with concern.

  “No one feels it more than those who live near the borders,” she added, her eyes lingering on the faraway mountaintops, as if somewhere behind them, her past still waited. He held her hand tighter.

  “I’m sorry… about your parents, Noor.”

  Noor didn’t look at him. Her lips trembled as she replied,

  “What did sorry even mean, Ahaan? For a girl who stood by the window for months, hoping her parents would walk through that door again one day? Hoping they’d surprise her with sweets, or lullabies?”

  Her voice cracked. “They never came. They were lost in the riots.”

  Ahaan didn’t speak.

  He simply looked up at the sky — clouds drifting lazily like wounded birds.

  “I want to become an officer one day,” he said at last. “A great one. Who brings light to this darkness. Who buries hatred under new sunrises. All dark chapters shall come to an end.”

  Noor turned to him, wiping her cheeks with her sleeve. “You mean… you’re joining the army?”

  He nodded. “My uncle’s giving me an offer. I’ll leave next month with him.”

  “Aren’t you afraid?” she asked. “The army’s not a normal job, it’s like playing with life and death.”

  Ahaan smiled — not with arrogance, but with purpose. “For me, it just means to pay for deaths with life.” He looked straight into her. “…I’ll make sure it’s a death worth every drop.”

  “It will be a long time you need to stay afar, Ahaan. You were the only one in this cruel world, I had, after I was left all alone. How shall I bear this unforgiving time that separates us for life?”

  “Just don’t turn around when I’m gone and you’ll never feel that I went away.”

  Present Day – The Previous Night

  The lamp glowed softly. A thin melody from an old gramophone record curled into the quiet room like smoke.

  Noor sat alone with a glass of wine, her eyes fixed on a dusty, framed painting — two children standing by a tree, the girl’s hair tied in braids, the boy flashing a toothy grin.

  Her fingers trembled around the glass.

  Then—A knock. Violent. Urgent.

  She opened the door—It was Ahaan. She could’ve made no mistake in recognizing him, even after all these years.

  He stood at the threshold, a ghost of the past, blood drenching his uniform. Behind him, his loyal German Shepherd whimpered, barely breathing.

  Noor gasped.

  “Ahaan—?”

  He staggered inside, collapsing onto the floor. She held him, panic rising. “What happened? Who did this to you?”

  His voice was coarse, every word a labor. “I found out… about everything about a secret attack, a mission that I was never supposed to know of. Arms. Drugs. And assassinations. Hidden inside the Doregaon supplies. A syndicate led by Madam Scorpion.”

  He coughed blood, eyes blazing with defiance. “I passed the intel through the radar… but they found me. Tried to erase me. They shot my dog- just look how it bleeds from those wounds! We escaped somehow through the abandoned forest routes. But the danger is yet not over. They’ll be back… and they’ll do worse this time.”

  “Let me shelter you, dear—”

  He shook his head.

  “No. They’ll find me. And when they do… they’ll make sure the last of me is forgotten. They will kill me and feed me to their hungry beasts. That’s not how I want to go, Noor. That’s not how my proud motherland would want me to go. It would be her defeat, her insult, her disgrace.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “You’re still the same boy from the hills… You haven’t changed a bit.”

  He gave a half-smile. “Still dreaming of sunrises.”

  She held his hand tighter. “Then let me help. Let me fight with you in this last war.”

  He looked into her soul. “Help me leave, Noor. Not as a body in their trunk… but as a soul in the river. Let me dissolve into the mountains, the winds, the trees- every bit of my motherland, I once promised to protect.”

  “No, Ahaan, don’t say that—”

  “You must.”

  “You’ll survive—”

  “They kill the soul first, then the body. If I die now, I die as someone who did his duty, as a loyal son. But if they take me… my death becomes a statistic.”

  Silence followed.

  Then, Ahaan took the same kitchen knife Noor would later hide under the carpet. He smiled one last time. “Don’t turn around, Noor, when I’m gone. Let me become a ripple in your silence.”

  She tried to stop him. Screamed. But the blade had already found its home.

  A soft gasp. Then… stillness.

  The dog, as if understanding, let out a weak howl — then quieted.

  Noor fell to her knees, sobbing, holding him as if time would reverse if she just cried loud enough.

  She wrapped Ahaan and the dog in old woolen shawls. Her face blank, her eyes dead with grief. She walked alone to the river’s edge. The moon above witnessed the funeral of a warrior.

  The river was quiet — too quiet. She let them go.

  The bodies floated slowly, as though the water already knew its guest was royalty. In the east, the sky began to blush — The first golden rays pierced through the lingering dark storm clouds.

  The darkness was still there. But so was the light. She whispered into the wind, “You didn’t die, Ahaan. You just became the land itself.”

  And as the river curved and disappeared into the distance, so did her tears. For some distant breeze brought a voice to her ears, “Do you believe in soul-mates, Noor? They say souls unite when constellations meet in the sky.”

  Noor looked up in the sky. Surely, somewhere, at some distant place in this endless universe, two constellations were meeting for eternity.