17th July.
The night in Udaipur was supposed to be calm.
Instead, the sky looked furious.
Rain hammered against the rooftop as if someone was knocking desperately, over and over again. Thunder cracked across the dark sky, and for a split second, lightning illuminated the entire neighborhood in a ghostly white glow—then everything went black.
The power was out.
Aanya stood near the window, staring at the empty street below. The rain blurred everything, turning the world into shifting shadows.
"It's just the rain," she whispered to herself.
Behind her, her father's voice broke the silence.
"Power cuts happen during storms."
His tone was steady.
Too steady.
Aanya turned around.
He was standing near the table, holding an old brown file. The same file he had been hiding for weeks. Every time she entered the room unexpectedly, he would close it quickly.
Tonight, he wasn't hiding it.
He looked at her.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The sound of rain filled the space between them.
"Aanya," he said quietly, "if I'm not back by morning…"
She froze.
He had never spoken like that before.
"If I'm not back by morning," he repeated, "don't open the wardrobe in my room."
The thunder roared again.
"What do you mean?" she asked, her voice shaking despite herself. "Where are you going in this weather?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he walked toward her and placed the file on the table. His eyes weren't scared—but they weren't calm either. They looked like someone who had already made a decision.
"Some things," he said softly, "should have been buried years ago."
Before she could ask another question, he picked up his umbrella and stepped toward the door.
The rain seemed louder now. Almost violent.
"Papa, wait!" she called.
He paused at the door but didn't turn around.
"No matter what happens," he said, "trust no one."
And then he stepped outside.
The door shut.
The storm swallowed him.
Aanya didn't sleep that night.
She sat on the couch, staring at the clock.
12:47 AM.
1:32 AM.
2:15 AM.
Each passing minute felt heavier than the last.
At 3:03 AM, lightning struck so close that the entire house shook.
She ran to the window.
The street was empty.
Her father was gone.
Morning arrived quietly.
The rain had stopped.
Birds chirped as if nothing unusual had happened.
But her father's bed was untouched.
His phone lay on the table.
And the old brown file was missing.
On the wooden floor near the entrance, something caught her eye.
A symbol.
Drawn in wet mud.
A circle… with three lines cutting through it.
Her heart began to pound.
Because she had seen that symbol before.
Exactly one year ago.
In a newspaper.
Above the headline:
"Man Disappears on 17th July – Fifth Case in Five Years."
And this time—
It was her father.