The walk from Tejkunipara to Dhanmondi Lake felt like a journey through a ghost town. Usually, even at midnight, Dhaka breathes with some form of life—the distant hum of a truck, the bark of a stray dog, or the rhythmic clinking of a night guard's stick. But tonight, the city was draped in a suffocating shroud of silence. Aaryan's sneakers hit the pavement with a hollow sound that seemed to echo back at him from the dark alleyways. Every shadow cast by the leafless trees looked like a reaching hand, and every flicker of a distant light felt like a watchful eye.
His mind was a storm of conflicting emotions. One part of him, the rational part that dealt with pixels and deadlines, screamed at him to turn back, to go home, lock the door, and pretend the blue envelope never existed. But another part—the seven-year-old boy who had waited by the window for a father who never came home—was driving his legs forward. The brass key in his pocket felt strangely warm against his thigh, almost as if it were vibrating with a life of its own.
As he reached the perimeter of the lake, the air temperature seemed to drop by several degrees. A thick, grey mist rolled over the water, obscuring the far bank. The lake, usually a place for morning joggers and young couples, now looked like a gateway to another realm. The water was unnervingly still, a sheet of black glass that didn't even ripple when the wind blew.
Aaryan followed the narrow, overgrown path leading to the abandoned jetty. This part of the lake had been cordoned off years ago due to some structural instability, but the warning signs were now rusted and buried under wild vines. He pushed through a thicket of bushes, his hoodie catching on thorns, until he saw it—the skeletal remains of the wooden pier jutting out into the fog.
"Is anyone there?" Aaryan called out. His voice felt thin and fragile, swallowed instantly by the mist.
There was no verbal answer, but a sudden 'creak' of wood resonated from the end of the jetty. It was the sound of weight being shifted. Someone—or something—was waiting for him in the heart of the fog.
Aaryan stepped onto the first wooden plank. It groaned under his weight, a sharp, protesting sound that made his heart skip a beat. He took another step, then another, his hands trembling. The smell of rotting wood and stagnant water filled his nostrils. As he reached the midpoint of the pier, he saw a small object sitting on a wooden post. It was a box, no larger than a cigar case, wrapped in a familiar navy-blue silk cloth.
With shaking hands, Aaryan reached out and took the box. He unwrapped the cloth to reveal a dark wooden chest with an intricate keyhole. The eagle crest from the envelope was carved into the lid, its eyes made of tiny, glittering rubies that seemed to glow in the dark.
He took the brass key from his pocket. It fit perfectly. As he turned it, a series of complex mechanical clicks sounded from within the box, and the lid popped open with a hiss, as if releasing pressurized air from decades ago.
Inside the box lay a single, old-fashioned microcassette and a photograph. Aaryan picked up the photo first. His breath hitched. It was his father, Dr. Azam Chowdhury, looking much younger, standing in front of a massive stone door covered in symbols he didn't recognize. But it was the person standing next to his father that sent a chill down his spine. It was a woman with long, flowing hair, but her face had been violently scratched out of the photo with something sharp.
In his father's hand, in the photograph, was a blue envelope—the exact same one Aaryan had received today.
Suddenly, a cold wind whipped across the lake, tearing through the mist. The silence was broken by a low, rhythmic thumping sound, like a heavy heartbeat coming from beneath the water. Aaryan looked down at the gaps between the wooden planks. For a split second, he thought he saw something large and pale moving beneath the surface.
He quickly grabbed the microcassette and put it in the small portable player he had brought in his pocket—a relic from his father's old desk. He pressed 'Play'.
The audio was distorted, filled with static and the sound of rushing wind. Then, a voice broke through. It was raspy, filled with a frantic energy that Aaryan recognized instantly. It was his father.
"Aaryan... if you are listening to this, the cycle has begun again. I tried to hide it. I tried to bury the truth in the ruins of the Sunken City, but the Order of the Blue Eagle never forgets. They are coming for the key, Aaryan. They will promise you answers, but they will only give you a grave. Do not trust the woman in the photograph. She is the one who—"
The recording cut off into a shrill, piercing scream of static. At that exact moment, the jetty shook violently. A hand, pale and unnaturally long, gripped the edge of the pier just inches from Aaryan's foot.
Aaryan scrambled back, nearly falling into the freezing water. Out of the fog, a figure emerged. It wasn't the monster he expected, but a woman dressed in a sleek, silver-grey trench coat. Her face was beautiful but carved from ice, her eyes a piercing, unnatural shade of blue.
"The recording is incomplete, Aaryan," she said, her voice smooth and devoid of emotion. "Your father always was too dramatic. He didn't tell you the most important part—that the key you hold doesn't just open boxes. It opens a door that should have remained locked."
"Who are you?" Aaryan gasped, clutching the box to his chest. "What did you do to my father?"
The woman stepped closer, the wooden planks not making a single sound under her boots. "I am the one who sent the envelope. And as for your father... he is exactly where he chose to be. Now, give me the key, and perhaps I'll let you live long enough to see him one last time."
Aaryan backed away, his heel reaching the very edge of the jetty. Behind him was the dark, bottomless lake. In front of him was a woman who seemed to command the very shadows around her.
"I don't believe you," Aaryan whispered, his voice gaining a sudden, desperate strength.
"Belief is irrelevant," she replied, reaching into her coat. She didn't pull out a gun. She pulled out another blue envelope. "Open this one, Aaryan. And you'll see exactly what happened to your mother five years ago. It wasn't a heart attack."
Aaryan's world tilted. His mother's death—the only peace he thought he had left—was a lie? The rage and grief hit him like a physical blow. Without thinking, he gripped the brass key and lunged, not away from her, but toward the dark water, disappearing into the mist before she could react.