Through the open windows, the fresh mountain air filled our hearts with calm and our lungs with clean, crisp breath. Morning sunlight glimmered on the dew-covered glass, streaming across the wooden floor. In the distance, the sound of a river flowing mixed with the soft echo of temple bells from the valley. For the first time in days, our souls felt lighter and peaceful.
We had a traditional Kashmiri breakfast, including girda, fresh round bread, harissa, which had been slowly cooked overnight in copper pots, sweet saffron-colored shirmal, and nun chai, a salty pink tea scented with cardamom.
After taking a cool shower, the warmth and charm of the valley filled every bite, calming our body and emotions.
Even though we were still unsettled by the mysterious ghost we had met in Nawabshah, we decided not to think about it.
We didn't want to break the calm of that morning.
By midmorning, the mist lifted, showing rolling green hills.
We met Adeel, a cheerful local guide whose laughter showed his deep knowledge of the mountains. As we walked through the countryside, he told stories where each mountain had a name, each stream had a story, and each stone held a piece of history.
Then something changed
Adeel stopped in the middle of his story.
His eyes quickly looked toward the jungle, and his smile faded. His face showed no fear. He muttered, "Not here," in answer to Peter's question about what was wrong. Then he said, "Let's continue walking."
As we reached a spot where we could see the valley below, the air got colder. He finally spoke, but only if we promised not to tell anyone what he said. He pointed at the trees that were covered in mist and told us that since the time of British rule, when enslaved people who resisted were taken into the woods and buried alive, this place had been feared and considered haunted. They disappeared from view.
The people who live here have since heard their names being called from the jungle, seen shadows, and heard weeping.
A black cat came out from the trees as the silence grew.
It looked at us without blinking before running into the strange woods. The timing felt too planned. Adeel turned pale. He said, "It's a sign." "Those who talk about this place are watched by the spirit."
Diljeet and I didn't believe in coincidences because we were detectives and officers.
Nawabshah, the spirit, and the black cat that followed us were all connected to this.
We went to a waterfall to relax.
We laughed and put our feet in the cold water while rainbows danced in the mist. But we couldn't shake the feeling that the cat was either warning or guiding us.
We returned for a big lunch before noon, which had sizzling seekh kebabs, Yakhni, Gushtaba, and Rogan Josh.
We ate in silence, aware that something was watching beneath Kashmir's beauty.
That evening, Peter mentioned the cat while sipping delicious Kahwa.
Abdul agreed; we were being guided by the same spirit. I understood that she had brought us here for a reason. Diljeet promised that we would find out the truth.
We vowed to stop running away, to find the truth, and to give justice to the person who couldn't speak.
We had never harmed her. Even at the crematorium, her quiet voice showed sadness instead of anger. She had always been near us, not as a curse but as someone searching. A soul tied to an injustice.
It wasn't a coincidence now.
It was fate.
To finish what history had begun, she had brought us here.