Shadows of the Past

The heavy curtains of the bedroom fluttered slightly as the night air drifted inside.

Andarin sat slumped against the bedpost, one hand pressed to his bruised ribs.

Meera paced in front of him, her brows furrowed, restless.

"You fought like a madman yesterday," she said quietly, almost to herself.

"And still... he almost killed you."

Andarin’s jaw clenched. His knuckles were white.

"Who was he?" Meera asked.

"Do you have... a brother?"

She hesitated.

"Or someone you didn’t tell me about?"

Andarin shook his head slowly.

A strange emptiness in his eyes.

"I don’t know," he rasped.

"You don’t know?" Meera demanded, stepping closer.

"How can you not know?"

Andarin raised his eyes to hers, and for a second, the flickering candlelight made him look... lost.

"I don’t remember anything, Meera," he said. His voice was hollow, tired.

"Except you."

She stared at him, confused.

"I remember your name," he whispered.

"I remember... you’re my wife. This mansion... our home."

He swallowed hard.

"And I remember one thing: I have to follow your every word. Protect you. Always."

The room grew colder, heavier.

Meera stumbled back, her mind racing.

It didn’t make sense.

Why was he so devoted?

Why did he obey her without question?

And why... why did none of this feel real?

---

Later that night, with Andarin leaning heavily against her, they descended the old creaking staircase to the mansion’s underground storeroom.

Dust exploded from the door as Meera forced it open.

Inside:

rotting trunks, broken mirrors, and — tucked in a corner — a heavy iron-bound chest.

Meera wrenched it open.

Inside:

photographs.

Hundreds of them.

Yellowed. Cracked.

Some so faded the images barely clung to the paper.

She picked one up.

Her heart stopped.

It was her.

And Andarin.

Standing by a grand fountain.

But the photo —

it looked like it was taken in the 1920s.

She shuffled faster, grabbing handfuls, spreading them across the dirty floor.

1920s.

1940s.

1950s.

Always the same.

Her.

And him.

But different clothes.

Different eras.

And one thing more... subtle, but present:

In almost every photo —

Andarin was standing slightly behind her.

Carrying her bags.

Bowing slightly.

Eyes always lowered.

Not a husband.

A servant.

But Meera shoved the thought away — it was impossible.

It had to be.

She turned to Andarin — he was staring blankly at the photos, as lost as she was.

Something inside the mansion... inside their memories... was very wrong.

---

Meanwhile — back in Mumbai —

Arav leaned back in the plush hotel chair, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his shirt half unbuttoned.

On the bed, two girls tangled around each other, laughing, kissing — drunk on cheap vodka and attention.

One of them crawled toward him, her lipstick smeared, tugging his belt loose.

The other giggled, straddling his lap, grinding against him shamelessly.

"You're a real detective, huh?" one purred, unzipping his jeans with her teeth.

"Maybe you can interrogate us too..."

Arav just grinned lazily, pulling her hair back rough enough to make her yelp.

"Spread wider," he ordered.

They obeyed instantly — desperate, sloppy, greedy for him.

For hours, the room was filled with low moans, wet slaps of skin, gasps and curses —

Arav fucking them hard, brutal, careless — using their bodies like they were nothing.

He didn’t care.

He needed the distraction.

The madness back in the mansion was haunting him even here.

Just as he was about to light another cigarette —

knock knock.

He froze.

The girls whined — desperate for more — but Arav ignored them, pulling on his pants.

Another knock.

Slow.

Soft.

Almost polite.

He flung the door open.

Nobody was there.

Only a letter taped to the door.

He tore it down, frowning.

A single sentence, written in black ink:

> "Solve your case first. You are not here for this."

Arav’s heart dropped into his stomach.

He spun around — scanning the empty hotel corridor —

but there was no one.

Just a faint, lingering smell of something old... and rotting.

He slammed the door shut, his mind racing.

Somebody was watching him.

And they were getting impatient.

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