Years passed, but time did not soften Rajendra or Anjali Sharma. To everyone outside, they looked like the perfect couple — disciplined, accomplished, forward-looking. But behind that flawless image were hearts that refused to move on.
Every new morning brought the same invisible ache. Every shining award, every business deal, every solved CBI case felt hollow. For them, success had lost its spark the day I disappeared.
And though they never spoke of it in front of the family, they shared one truth between them—a silent promise forged in pain: we will bring him back.
The world saw Rajendra as India's youngest powerhouse in global trade. His empire stretched across continents, his influence touching industries from real estate to renewable energy. When cameras caught him smiling, they saw a man untouchable by tragedy. But behind those smiles hid maps, files, and endless questions that refused to fade.
He worked late every night, long after calls ended and board meetings were done. The bright table lamps of his office became his second sun.
He traced every possible clue—transport logs, trade ships near the Chinese coast, and international refugee data. Each clue circled back to the same riddle: the boy vanished, and the sea swallowed the trail.
"Data can lie," he would murmur, staring at screens. "But deep water keeps its memory."
Meanwhile, Anjali Sharma, his wife and one of CBI's top-ranking officers, carried her pain differently. Her world revolved around discipline, law, and sharp logic. But inside, her heart fought between duty and heartbreak.
Her colleagues often said, "Madam handles every case with her soul." None knew that one case—mine—remained open on her personal desk. The folder labelled "Subject: Mukul Sharma (CLASSIFIED)." Only she had the key.
No one else could access it—not even the CBI Director.
Every week at midnight, she opened that file and reread every international report and every classified image, even those long declared irrelevant. She circled dates, locations, and keywords in red ink, especially one phrase that kept reappearing in old satellite data:
Unknown landmass. No human activity detected.
For the world, she solved cases involving corruption, smuggling, and terrorism. For herself, she investigated a boy who'd vanished into thin air.
But the most dangerous part of their vow was what they did in secret—known to no one, not even to my grandparents.
Together, Rajendra and Anjali created what they called The Horizon Project.
On paper, it looked like a harmless joint venture between government researchers and Rajendra's private company. Its official goal: studying "environmental anomalies and uncharted islands".
But in truth, it was their personal mission to find the island where all traces ended—the place where the sea seemed to guard answers.
Through Horizon, Rajendra funded private satellites disguised as environmental surveyors. He hired oceanographers, cryptologists, and intelligence consultants, each believing they worked for a global climate institute. Only two people knew the truth—that every mission revolved around me.
Whenever someone asked why his company poured millions into vanishing-island research, Rajendra would reply lightly, "Progress demands curiosity. The oceans hide our future." But the files in his private safe told a different story: coordinates, sonar readings, and interviews from sailors who claimed to see an island that disappeared each year.
Those reports always mentioned one name—whispered like a legend.
Aarvak.
He began charting its possible locations, using data from shipwrecks, satellite fog anomalies, and magnetic field disruptions. Each pattern led to the same circular region in the middle of the Indian Ocean—an area long considered unreachable due to unpredictable storms.
Meanwhile, Anjali turned her CBI posting into a tool for gathering what her husband couldn't. She used her authority to cross-reference old Indian Navy records, black-market trade routes, and communication intercepts between military radars of neighbouring nations.
During one investigation, she uncovered something chilling: an unmarked log recovered years ago by a naval unit describing "flashes of light over open water" and "energy waves resembling heartbeat pulses.
She copied the record secretly, storing it at home in a thick folder titled exactly like her husband's research.
Late at night, when their official work ended, the two sat together in their study—maps glowing faint blue under lamplight. The office, usually so neat, became a battlefield of papers, charts, and coded messages.
Rajendra's voice broke the silence once. "What if it's true, Anjali? What if the island exists?"
She didn't look away from the screen. "Then someone wanted it hidden."
He leaned back, rubbing his temples. "Hidden from the world—or from us?"
She whispered, "From destiny."
For all their logic and training, they slowly came to believe that my disappearance wasn't just an accident—it was fate's hand guiding me somewhere no human eyes had been for centuries.
But even with that belief, they stayed careful. Their search had to remain invisible. Politicians, generals, and bureaucrats could never know how deep it reached. If anyone traced their network, it would raise questions that could destroy careers and reputations.
So they spoke in codes. Emails disguised as shipment manifests. Messages hidden inside research briefings. Coordinates saved as product serial numbers in corporate files.
They spoke rarely, but when they did, it was always brief and clear:
"Any progress?"
"Not yet. But the horizon flickered again."
That word—horizon—became their hope and their code.
Once, when Rajendra received a faint signal near the southern waters—a blip lasting only a few seconds before vanishing—he called Anjali immediately.
"We caught something," he said. "It's faint but real."
She didn't celebrate. She just said quietly, "Don't tell anyone. Not even family. If we speak too soon, the world will erase it again."
That night, as the family gathered on the veranda, their faces calm under starlight, no one could guess the truth. Behind those composed smiles sat two people who had made an unbreakable oath—the oath of shadows.
To the world, they were duty and order personified. But privately, they had crossed beyond law and reason, chasing a miracle that only love believed could exist.
And as the stars above the Sharma-Yadav homes aligned once again, they stood silently together, eyes fixed on the night sky, whispering words no one else could hear:
"We're coming for you, Mukul. Hold on. No matter how far the light has taken you, we'll find the way."