Aarya had never felt the weight of an evening like this before.
The rain had finally let up, leaving the air heavy with that damp, metallic smell that made every breath taste faintly of iron. Her room was warm, but it felt suffocating. The walls seemed closer than they should be, her desk cluttered with papers she had no desire to look at.
She sat at the edge of her bed, notebook still untouched since she'd returned from the café. The coffee smell lingered faintly on its pages, mixed with the tang of wet paper. She could see Sid's handwriting from earlier where he'd scrawled a reminder of their next meeting, but the words blurred as her mind replayed what she'd deduced.
M.S. - Mohan Sharma.
The south gate.
The feather charm.
The glance between him and Ms. Iqbal when she'd first seen them in the same place.
It was too neat, too perfectly arranged, like a puzzle whose pieces clicked together with suspicious ease. And yet… that feather had been real, the overheard words real, Priya's nervous tone real.
She tried to read a book to distract herself. The lines of text dissolved into meaningless black threads. She flipped through television channels but couldn't recall a single thing she saw. Every sound outside a scooter passing, a door shutting in a neighboring flat made her head turn sharply.
By eleven, she knew she wouldn't sleep.
She grabbed her jacket and notebook, slipping them into her bag more out of habit than need. She told herself she was just going for a walk, to clear her mind. But her feet carried her without hesitation toward the south gate.
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The streets were quieter now. Most shops had closed, metal shutters pulled down with the dull rattle of finality. A few food carts still clung to the sidewalks, their vendors ladling steaming broth into paper cups, their movements slow with the knowledge that their customers were few. The streetlights cast long, exaggerated shadows on the wet pavement, stretching like black water across her path.
She kept her hood up, not because she feared being recognized, but because it made her feel smaller, less visible. Her shoes scuffed softly against the road. Every few steps she glanced over her shoulder, but there was no one.
When the south gate finally came into view, it felt more like arriving at a border than a campus entrance. The iron bars were tall and narrow, the paint chipping to reveal orange rust beneath. The banyan tree loomed beside it, its thick roots writhing into the ground like the fingers of something ancient.
The lamp above the gate flickered erratically, bathing the scene in bursts of yellow light before dipping it back into darkness. It made her heartbeat speed up without reason.
She took cover behind the banyan's trunk. From here she had a partial view of the gate and the stretch of road leading to it.
And then she waited.
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Waiting has its own gravity. Minutes stretch, thoughts warp. At first she was alert, straining to catch every noise the distant hum of the city, the occasional chirp of a night insect. But after a while, the stillness settled over her like a blanket, making her wonder if she'd been wrong to come.
A sudden crunch of gravel made her heart lurch. She pressed herself against the trunk, peering into the dim street.
A figure approached. Broad shoulders, confident stride. She tensed.
But when the man stepped into the light, she saw the reflective stripe on his jacket. A delivery driver. He passed by without so much as a glance toward the gate.
Her pulse eased, but only slightly.
She shifted her weight, careful not to snap any fallen twigs beneath her feet.
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Twenty minutes crawled by.
Then she heard it faint but distinct the metallic jingle of keys.
Her breath caught.
From the opposite side of the road, a man emerged from the shadows. His head was bent, shoulders hunched against the night air. Even before the flickering lamp revealed his face, she knew it was Mohan Sharma.
He carried a worn leather satchel slung across his body. From its zipper dangled the feather charm, swaying gently, catching the light each time it swung forward.
Aarya's stomach tightened.
Mohan glanced behind him once, then walked straight to the gate. He checked his watch — a quick, practiced motion and tapped three times against the iron.
The sound was soft but sharp, each tap echoing in the still air.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a quiet metallic scrape, the gate shifted. Someone inside was unlocking it from within.
A figure stepped through.
Ms. Iqbal.
Even in the broken light, Aarya could see the way her scarf was drawn tightly around her face, leaving only her eyes visible. Her movements were brisk, almost wary.
"You shouldn't have come here tonight," Ms. Iqbal's voice carried easily in the silence, low and urgent.
"I didn't have a choice," Mohan replied, his own voice taut. "It's getting worse. If we wait "
"Not now," she cut in, glancing over her shoulder. "Just give it to me."
He reached into the satchel and pulled out something small, wrapped tightly in dark cloth. He held it out, and she took it quickly, tucking it beneath her shawl with an efficiency that spoke of habit.
No thanks, no farewell. She slipped back through the gate, the lock sliding shut behind her with a clean, final click.
Mohan lingered for a few seconds, staring at the gate as though willing it to open again. Then he turned and walked away, his steps faster now, the feather charm swinging wildly at his side.
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Aarya stayed hidden, her breathing shallow.
The urge to step out, to follow him, was strong almost magnetic. But something in the way they had spoken, the way the exchange had been so quick, so… choreographed, made her hesitate.
Whatever was wrapped in that cloth wasn't part of any romance.
And if Mohan Sharma was truly M.S., then the diary's confessions might be only a fragment of a much larger story.
One that was beginning to feel far more dangerous than she'd imagined.