Alibaug was quieter than Mumbai could ever be. The ocean here did not crash like an enemy; it whispered like a secret. Secrets, however, were dangerous, particularly the kind hidden behind ancient clock walls.
The vehicle came to a halt in front of a forgotten bungalow, swathed in vines and the stench of salt. Samruddhi came out first, her boots crunching on gravel. Arpan was next, softer, eyes on the building.
"It's been untouched since she passed away," he whispered.
"Her? Your mother?" Samruddhi queried.
He nodded. "Rina More. This house was her refuge. Now it's our battlefield."
They climbed up the path together. Arpan reached down under a shattered flower pot and pulled out an old key that was rusted.
"Still keeping things hidden under pots?" Samruddhi smiled wryly.
"Some habits never die," he replied, opening the door.
The inside air was heavy with age. Dust swirled in the sunlight filtering through torn curtains. The furniture was draped, but the smell of aged perfume remained. Memories still persisted here, in the silence and the squeaky floorboards.
They proceeded to the master bedroom. Arpan's pace slowed as he surveyed the room—the tattered floral paper, the unopened vanity. He reached for the old clock perched above the bed.
"Help me?" he asked.
Samruddhi got onto the bed without doubt. She steadied the clock as he turned the bolts. Behind it: a rusty metal locker.
Arpan opened it gingerly.
Inside: a packet of letters bound in red string, a photo of a younger Devraj and Jai Jadhav shaking hands, and a cassette tape.
"What the hell." Samruddhi panted.
She picked up the photo. Her father and Arpan's.
"They were partners?" she breathed.
"Or traitors," Arpan grumbled. "Depending on who is doing the telling."
He gazed at the cassette. No label, but his hands shook as he put it into the cassette player sitting nearby, once dormant.
It crackled.
And a voice. Rina's.
"If you're hearing this, then blood has come back for blood. Jai and I. we tried to flee from it. But Devraj made a decision. And I. I paid for it. If Arpan is listening—don't trust your father. He murdered Jai. He murdered the peace."
Samruddhi's eyes widened. "No."
Arpan was empty. Shattered.
"She lied," he said. "She must've lied."
But Samruddhi was already disappearing into the hallway. "We need answers. Not tape-recorded specters."
He followed. Neither spoke as they returned to the car. The sun was setting.
On the way back, Samruddhi's phone buzzed.
A message. A location. Just coordinates.
And one word: "Truth."
Arpan read it over her shoulder.
"It's a trap," he said.
"Or it's salvation," she replied.
He clenched the wheel. "You choose. But I'll be right behind you."
She met his eyes.
For the first time, no fire. Just reflection.
The war wasn't coming.
It had already begun.
To be continued.