The hum of the newsroom buzzed faintly in the background, but Aarav Mehta barely noticed. He sat at his cluttered desk, his eyes fixed on the aged envelope in his hands. It had arrived that morning, slipped under his apartment door without a return address. There were no stamps, no official markings—just his name, scrawled in shaky, elegant handwriting.

He hesitated, running his fingers over the brittle edges. Something about it felt… old. Not just in the way the paper had yellowed with time, but in the way it smelled—a faint trace of sea salt and damp earth clung to the envelope, as if it had been plucked from a forgotten place.

Aarav had received many anonymous tips in his years as an investigative journalist, but this one carried an eerie weight, as if it were whispering a secret meant only for him.

Finally, he broke the seal.

Inside was a single sheet of paper, folded neatly, the ink slightly smudged.

“If you seek the truth, come to Ravenshore. The past was never buried—it was only forgotten.”

That was it. No name. No explanation. Just those cryptic words.

Aarav’s brows furrowed. Ravenshore. The name struck a distant chord, though he couldn't immediately place it. He set the letter aside and reached into the envelope again. This time, his fingers brushed against something stiff.

A Polaroid photograph.

Slowly, he unfolded it.

His breath caught.

The image showed a mansion, perched at the edge of a cliff, the sea raging beneath it. Fog curled around its crumbling walls, and the windows, dark and hollow, gave the house a ghostly presence. But what truly sent a chill down his spine was the woman standing in front of the mansion.

She wore a flowing dress, her dark hair whipping around her face as if caught in the wind. Her features were blurred, partially hidden by shadows, but something about her was unnervingly familiar.

Aarav flipped the photo over.

Scrawled in faded ink was a single word:

"Aisha."

The name hit him like a punch to the gut.

Aisha Verma. The woman who had vanished twenty years ago.

Aarav’s pulse quickened as old memories surfaced—news articles, whispered theories, and a case that had once gripped the country. Aisha Verma had disappeared without a trace from Ravenshore, leaving behind only unanswered questions. No body was found. No ransom notes. No leads.

And yet, here she was. In a photograph that couldn’t possibly exist.

His instincts roared to life. Someone wanted him in Ravenshore. Someone wanted him to chase this mystery.

Aarav leaned back in his chair, staring at the letter and the photograph. Every logical part of his mind told him to dismiss it, to ignore what could easily be a cruel hoax. But something deeper—a feeling in his gut—told him otherwise.

The past was calling. And Aarav had never been one to ignore a mystery.

Later That Night

The train to Ravenshore rattled along the tracks, the dim glow of the overhead lights flickering every few minutes. Aarav sat by the window, watching as the city lights faded into open fields, then dense forests, and finally, a long stretch of nothing but darkness.

He hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that he was walking into something much bigger than he had anticipated. Who had sent the letter? Why now, after two decades of silence? And, most importantly—who was the woman in the photograph?

His laptop sat open on the small foldable table before him. He had spent the last few hours digging through old archives, refreshing his memory on Aisha Verma’s disappearance.

She had been twenty-five years old when she vanished—a promising journalist, much like him, known for investigating corruption and scandals. Some said she had been working on something big before she disappeared. Others believed she had left on her own, running from something no one knew about.

But the strangest detail?

Her body was never found.

No remains, no belongings, not even a single trace of where she might have gone. It was as if the earth had swallowed her whole.

Aarav frowned, rubbing a hand over his face. The deeper he went into the case, the more unsettling it became. He checked the last known photo of Aisha, taken shortly before she disappeared. The grainy newspaper image showed a woman with piercing dark eyes, high cheekbones, and a determined expression.

He pulled the mystery Polaroid from his pocket and compared it side by side.

The resemblance was uncanny.

Aarav exhaled sharply. No. It wasn’t possible. The photograph had to be a manipulation, a trick of some kind. But if it was fake, why send it to him?

A low murmur of voices drifted through the train car, pulling him from his thoughts. He glanced around. Most of the passengers were asleep, the rhythmic motion of the train lulling them into slumber.

But one person wasn’t asleep.

A woman, sitting two rows ahead, staring directly at him.

Aarav’s spine stiffened. Her face was partially obscured by shadows, but something about her presence set him on edge. She wasn’t looking away, wasn’t even pretending to be subtle. She wanted him to notice.

Then, as if satisfied, she rose from her seat and disappeared into the next train car.

Aarav’s heart pounded. Every instinct told him to follow.

So he did.

The moment he stepped into the next compartment, he felt it—the eerie silence.

The woman was nowhere to be seen.

Aarav scanned the rows of empty seats, his pulse thrumming. Had she gotten off? No, the train hadn’t stopped yet. Had she hidden somewhere? And more importantly—who was she?

His fingers tightened around the photograph in his pocket. Something told him this wasn’t just coincidence.

Someone knew he was coming to Ravenshore.

And they were watching.

......................

The train to Ravenshore pulled into the station at exactly 3:07 AM. The air was thick with fog, curling around the old wooden platform like ghostly fingers. The station itself looked forgotten—its flickering lamps barely lighting the way, the peeling paint on the sign barely legible.

Aarav Mehta stepped off, tightening his grip on his duffel bag. The letter, the photo of Aisha, and the strange woman on the train had left a lingering unease in his chest.

But he was here now. And he wasn’t leaving until he got answers.

The station was nearly deserted—except for a single man leaning against a rusted pillar. He was in his early fifties, wearing a wool coat and a cigarette hanging from his lips. His sharp eyes locked onto Aarav the moment he stepped onto the platform.

“You Mehta?” the man asked. His voice was rough, like he had spent years drinking cheap whiskey and smoking unfiltered cigarettes.

Aarav gave a curt nod. “Who’s asking?”

The man smirked. “Inspector Vikram Roy. You’re lucky I don’t throw reporters like you back on the next train out of town.”

Aarav raised an eyebrow. “That’s quite the welcome. You know why I’m here?”

Vikram took a slow drag of his cigarette. “I know a lot of things. Like how Ravenshore doesn’t take kindly to outsiders digging up the past. Especially ones that should stay buried.”

Aarav crossed his arms. “I got an anonymous letter. Someone wants me here.”

Vikram exhaled smoke, watching Aarav carefully. “Yeah? And that letter didn’t warn you to stay away?”

Aarav pulled the photo from his pocket and held it up. “Tell me, Inspector—does this place look familiar?”

For the briefest moment, Vikram’s expression changed. A flicker of something—recognition, maybe even fear. But it was gone in an instant.

“The old Verma Mansion,” he muttered. “That place should’ve crumbled into the sea years ago.”

Aarav’s stomach twisted. Verma Mansion. That meant…

“Aisha’s house,” he said.

Vikram met his gaze, his face unreadable. “The house where she was last seen.”

Aarav clenched his jaw. “Then that’s where I’m going.”

Vikram let out a low chuckle. “You’re not going anywhere right now, kid. No one steps foot near that house after dark.”

Aarav frowned. “Superstition?”

Vikram’s smirk faded. “Call it whatever you want. But if you’re smart, you’ll wait until morning.”

Aarav wanted to argue, but the cold wind howled through the empty station, making the silence even more unsettling. He exhaled sharply.

“Fine. Where’s the nearest hotel?”

Vikram smirked again. “Not many options in Ravenshore. You’re staying at The Blackwood Inn.”

The Blackwood Inn

The moment Aarav stepped inside the inn, he felt like he had entered another century.

The wooden floorboards creaked under his boots, and the walls were lined with old paintings—portraits of people long forgotten, their hollow eyes seeming to follow him. The air smelled of dust, wood polish, and something faintly floral, like dried lavender left out too long.

An elderly woman stood behind the reception desk, her silver hair braided neatly down her back. Her name tag read “Mrs. Desai.”

“You must be Mr. Mehta,” she said, her voice kind but firm. “Inspector Roy called ahead.”

Aarav set down his bag. “Seems like word travels fast around here.”

Mrs. Desai gave a tight-lipped smile. “In a town this small, nothing stays a secret for long.”

Aarav slid the photo of Aisha across the counter. “Ever seen her before?”

Mrs. Desai barely glanced at it before shaking her head. “It’s late, Mr. Mehta. You should rest.”

Aarav studied her. She was lying.

But he was too exhausted to push further.

“Fine,” he muttered, grabbing his room key. “Goodnight.”

3:42 AM – A Knock at the Door

Aarav had barely dozed off when he heard it—a soft knock.

His eyes snapped open. The room was pitch black except for the faint glow of the street lamp outside.

Another knock. This time, louder.

Aarav sat up, his pulse quickening. He reached for his phone. No signal.

Slowly, he got out of bed and crept toward the door. “Who’s there?”

Silence.

Then—a whisper.

“…Don’t look for her…”

Aarav’s breath hitched. He yanked open the door—but the hallway was empty.

Only a single thing remained.

A torn piece of old newspaper, left on the floor.

Aarav picked it up. The ink was faded, the edges brittle with age. But as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, his stomach dropped.

It was an article from twenty years ago.

The headline read:

“Journalist Aisha Verma Presumed Dead. Investigation Closed.”

And underneath it—someone had written in red ink:

“She is NOT dead.”

......................

The torn newspaper trembled in Aarav’s grip. The ink was faded, but the red scrawl across the article burned into his mind:

“She is NOT dead.”

His pulse hammered. The hallway was silent—too silent. Whoever had left this had disappeared into the shadows. Were they warning him? Or leading him deeper into the mystery?

Aarav glanced around once more before stepping back into his room, locking the door behind him. He set the newspaper on the desk, smoothing out the creases. The article was brief:

"After weeks of investigation, journalist Aisha Verma has been presumed dead following her sudden disappearance from her family estate in Ravenshore. No remains or personal belongings were found. The case is now closed, and the Verma Mansion remains abandoned."

Aarav frowned. Something was missing.

He reached for his laptop and searched online archives for the same article. It took a few minutes, but he finally found the original version of the report.

His eyes narrowed.

The version he found online was longer. The one left outside his door had entire paragraphs missing.

Someone had deliberately removed key details.

Aarav quickly scanned the missing sections:

"Sources claim Aisha Verma was investigating a high-profile corruption scandal before her disappearance. Authorities believe her work may have led to her vanishing, though no conclusive evidence has surfaced."

Aarav inhaled sharply. Aisha was onto something before she disappeared.

A name stood out in the article: Raghav Malhotra—a powerful businessman with rumored criminal ties.

Aarav clenched his jaw. If Aisha had been digging into Malhotra’s secrets before she vanished, was it possible that…

She had been silenced?

His fingers tightened around the paper. But that still didn’t explain the photograph. If Aisha had truly disappeared twenty years ago, why did that Polaroid look so recent?

And more importantly—who had sent it to him?

Aarav’s thoughts were interrupted by a sudden creak from the hallway.

He froze.

The sound was faint, but deliberate. Someone was standing outside his door.

Aarav’s heart pounded. He grabbed his phone, its screen still showing no signal. Slowly, he stepped toward the door, listening.

Then—a shadow moved under the gap.

Aarav yanked the door open.

But the hallway was empty.

Except for something lying on the floor.

Another envelope.

The Second Letter

Back inside, Aarav carefully opened the envelope. Unlike the first letter, this one was crumpled and stained, as if it had been handled roughly.

Inside was a single sheet of paper—this time, messily written in bold, jagged handwriting.

“Don’t trust them. The town lies. Meet me at the cliffs before sunrise. Come alone.”

There was no name. No instructions on exactly where at the cliffs.

Aarav exhaled sharply. This was getting deeper by the second.

Someone in Ravenshore wanted him gone.

And someone else wanted him to know the truth.

He glanced at the clock—4:15 AM.

The sky outside was still dark, the town silent.

He had two hours before sunrise.

Aarav grabbed his coat and slipped the newspaper, letters, and photograph into his bag.

It was time to find out who was really pulling the strings.

......................