The old, dilapidated apartment building in Tejkunipara, Dhaka, seemed to whisper stories of forgotten tragedies through its damp, peeling walls. Aaryan had been living in a cramped studio on the top floor for the last two years. His life was as cluttered as his room—a chaotic mess of empty coffee mugs, tangled charging cables, and the constant hum of his laptop. As a freelance graphic designer, he was a creature of the night, rarely seeing the sun. His day began when the shadows lengthened, and ended under the artificial blue glow of a computer screen.
Aaryan was used to solitude. After his father's mysterious disappearance twenty years ago, his mother had raised him with extreme caution, eventually passing away five years ago. Now, Aaryan was alone in the world, accompanied only by fading memories and a nagging sense of emptiness. But for the past few days, a chilling sensation had begun to crawl up his spine—the feeling that he wasn't truly alone. It felt as if someone was standing just outside his door, listening to his breathing. He had checked the hallway multiple times in the middle of the night, only to find nothing but the hollow silence of the darkness.
This morning, however, was different. Aaryan woke up around 11:00 AM. Outside, the air was thick and humid, the kind of weather that felt like a heavy blanket. As he rolled out of bed to head to the bathroom, something on the floor caught his eye. It was a dark, navy-blue envelope that had been slid under his door.
The envelope didn't look like ordinary mail. The blue was so deep it almost looked like clotted blood under the dim morning light. Aaryan's heart gave a heavy thud against his ribs. He approached the door slowly, his bare feet silent on the cold tiles. He picked it up. It was surprisingly heavy, made of high-quality, textured paper. There was no stamp, no postmark—only his full name written in elegant, sharp calligraphy: "Aaryan Azam Chowdhury."
Aaryan froze. He rarely used his full name in the city. Even on his legal documents, the surname 'Chowdhury' was often omitted, a choice his mother had made to keep them beneath the radar after his father's disappearance. How did the sender know his ancestral name?
He sat on the edge of his worn-out sofa, his eyes darting to the window. The street below was eerily quiet, save for a stray dog seeking shade under a parked rickshaw. With trembling fingers, Aaryan broke the black wax seal on the back of the envelope. The seal bore the crest of an eagle—a symbol that felt hauntingly familiar. As the seal snapped, a faint, medicinal scent wafted out, smelling like old apothecary herbs and dust.
Inside were two items: a heavy, antique brass key with the same eagle crest engraved on its head, and a folded piece of pale yellow parchment. Aaryan unfolded the paper. The handwritten words were few, but each one felt like a serrated blade cutting into his mind.
"Aaryan, the chapter your father left unfinished twenty years ago is calling for a conclusion. You were told he died, but the truth is far more terrifying than a simple death. The key that arrived at your door today is the key to your past. If you seek the truth, come to the abandoned wooden jetty by Dhanmondi Lake tonight at midnight. Remember, Aaryan—come alone. If you are followed, the truth will remain buried forever—just like your father."
The note was unsigned. Aaryan sat like a statue, his mind racing back to that cursed night two decades ago. He was only seven years old. His father, Dr. Azam Chowdhury, a renowned archaeologist, had been acting strangely for months. He would lock himself in his study, whispering into the phone at odd hours. The night he vanished, he had hugged Aaryan tightly and whispered, "Grow strong, Aaryan. Never fear the truth." Then he walked out the door and never returned.
Aaryan looked at the brass key in his palm. It was intricate, cold, and felt heavy with the weight of secrets. He tried to remember if his father had ever owned such a key. Suddenly, a flash of memory hit him—an old iron chest in their ancestral village home. His father always wore a key around his neck. Could this be it? But that house had been sold years ago.
As the afternoon bled into evening, Aaryan felt his apartment shrinking around him. He paced the small room, his reflection in the mirror showing a man gripped by a mixture of terror and fierce determination. He decided he would go. The wound he had carried for twenty years needed a resolution, no matter the cost.
Twilight turned into a suffocating night. Aaryan tried to work on his laptop, but he couldn't focus. He noticed his phone signal was dead—bars fluctuating before disappearing entirely. Even his landline was silent, its dial tone replaced by a faint, rhythmic clicking. It was as if someone had systematically severed his connection to the outside world. Panic began to claw at his throat. This wasn't just an invitation; it was a trap. Yet, his father's final words echoed in his ears: "Never fear the truth."
At 11:00 PM, Aaryan pulled on his old black hoodie and tucked the key and the blue envelope into his inner pocket. As he reached for the doorknob, he felt a sudden chill, as if a cold breath had brushed past his ear. A faint whisper seemed to echo in the dark hallway, calling his name. He didn't look back. He knew that if he did, his courage might crumble.
The stairs creaked under his weight, each sound amplified in the dead of night. When he stepped out onto the street, he found the neighborhood plunged into darkness. The streetlamps had all failed simultaneously. The only light was a faint, blueish tint in the misty air.
He looked for a rickshaw, but the streets were ghostly empty. He began the long walk toward Dhanmondi. Every shadow seemed to move, every rustle of the wind sounded like a footstep. He didn't know that this walk was leading him toward a world where death lurked behind every corner. He didn't know that the mystery of the blue envelope was connected to a dark history far beyond his father's disappearance.
Midnight was fifteen minutes away when he reached the edge of Dhanmondi Lake. The mist was thick over the water, reflecting the pale, sickly light of the moon. In the distance, the skeletal remains of the abandoned wooden jetty stood out against the dark water.
Suddenly, a voice whispered directly into his ear, so close he could feel the cold air: "Welcome, Aaryan. To the end of your journey."
Aaryan spun around, but there was only the fog and the oppressive silence. He realized then—the game had truly begun.