By the time the sun leaned westward, the Indian Institute of Arts felt like it had breathed out a long day. Corridors that had echoed with freshers' chatter slowly softened into murmurs. Vikram sir walked ahead with the same precision he carried everywhere — measured steps, straight spine, eyes that missed nothing. From Languages to Performing Arts, from rehearsal halls scented with sweat and sandalwood to quiet classrooms that still smelled of chalk, he showed them everything.
Raaghav followed silently.
His kit hung on one shoulder, his mind somewhere else. Every room whispered something to him — voices of dancers, poets, painters — all chasing their calling, all burning quietly. Vikram stopped once, turned back, and reminded them in his firm tone, "Discipline is the first art you learn here. Come on time — or ten minutes before. Not after."
The clock touched 7 PM.
"Dismissed," Vikram said simply.
Students scattered — some laughing into phone calls, some rushing to hostels, some waiting at gates with tired smiles. Raaghav stood for a moment longer, watching the sky deepen into a bruised blue. Then he moved.
At the massive entrance gate, Ramanidharan Nair parked his bike, helmet in hand, scanning faces. One by one, freshers passed him. Some nodded politely. Some ignored him completely.
But not Raaghav.
Minutes passed.
Ramanidharan checked his phone. No missed calls. He walked closer to the gate, eyes narrowing now, the IT professional's calm giving way to the elder brother's instinct. He asked the security, glanced toward the inner roads, even peered down the path leading to the rehearsal halls.
Nothing.
"Ponmon…?" he muttered under his breath.
The college that had felt alive all day suddenly felt too big, too quiet. The lights along the pathway flickered on, one by one, as if the institute itself was holding its breath.
Ramanidharan's jaw tightened.
Raaghav Nair was nowhere to be found.